


Action/Reaction

by consultingcumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Mutual Pining, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Pining, Sherlock tries to play matchmaker, Slow Build, Slow Burn, but it's only because he's sad ok, he's a bit of a dick too, mycroft is a bit too late, reader is a violinist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:12:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9587399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingcumberbatch/pseuds/consultingcumberbatch
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is the Iceman, and instead Greg Lestrade is both warm and welcoming. Despite taking longer to accept his feelings for you, will Mycroft be able to act on them in time before you become involved with Greg instead?Begins as Greg/reader, read on to see how it ends!





	1. The Quiet Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock, no matter how much I wish I did. Please feel free to leave kudos and comments, it makes writing much more interactive and exciting for me!

**September 9**

It's your eyes, Mycroft decides as he rubs his own and groans at the beeping of his morning alarm, that captivate him so much that he dreams of you as often as he does. Those (e/c) eyes, crinkling slightly as you smile and dip your head to him, setting off all the many warning systems and alarms in his mind every time he catches a side glance of you.

For a few moments Mycroft allows his mind to wander and lazily contemplate the thought of you; the shy smile he dared to hope that you saved just for him, your soft fingers gently knocking his when handing over a cup of tea, the short bursts of laughter at he and Sherlock's bickering that never fail to startle him away from his train of thought. (The last time that happened, Sherlock's eyes sparked with a triumphant gleam that was uncomfortably clear to Mycroft.) 

A smile leaps unbidden to his lips, before falling away just as quickly. He has no right nor even the desire to think of you in such a way, he chides himself. Flashes of pain stab in Mycroft's throat and linger, leaving an unpleasant sensation that serves as a constant reminder to himself of the cold reality he lives in. He's the  _Iceman_ , not a man susceptible to the tumult of whims of petty emotion and physical attraction. Mycroft Holmes would not yield to a mere girl who he'd happened across by dealing with his sometimes unsavoury little brother, he reminds himself, even if she could make his stomach flip with only a smile.

Though, a voice in his mind whispers insidiously in counterpoint, someone like (Y/n) would hardly be interested in a man like Mycroft anyway. She probably smiles that same quiet smile to one Detective Inspector as he tears up the stairs to seek Sherlock's advice, likely prefers a warm grin like Gregory Lestrade's to Mycroft's thin-lipped smile, the voice hisses.

Gritting his teeth and attempting to shake himself out of his reverie, Mycroft rolls over with a long sigh to see stiff, red figures spelling out 5:47am on a small clock face. A long sigh passes from his lips. He huffs as he pulls himself out of bed, blearily considering how much work he has in the day ahead of him and how you're going to be all too absent from it. Perhaps he can scrounge up another reason to see his brother, Mycroft muses, one that'll give him the chance to knock on your door and invite you for a–

Mycroft shakes his head ruefully. It's going to be a very long day, as most of his days have been since meeting you.

 

* * *

 

With a brush of your fingers, you tuck a lock of (h/c) hair away from your face as you force yourself to exhale carefully. Despite the number of times you've played miniature recitals on the violin for Sherlock as well as real recitals for much larger audiences in your career as a solo violinist, your pre-performance nerves never dissipated. You smile wryly. Professional musician or not, you'd very quickly come to trust the opinion of your highly eccentric but surprisingly accommodating neighbour at 221B Baker St.

You ascend the stairs to 221B from your flat below while clutching your violin and bow, gingerly trying to avoid the infamously squeaky step which never failed to alert Sherlock of your imminent arrival. As you push open the door and enter the sitting room, the man himself flicks his hand carelessly towards his empty music stand. 

"I presume you won't be needing the music stand?" Sherlock says as he closes the laptop screen with a solid thump and lifts his gaze to your eyes, crossing one leg over another and steepling his fingers.

"Not today," you agree as you began to softly adjust the tuning of the strings on your violin. "I wanted to play the first movement of the Sibelius again; I've made a few changes to my interpretation of it since I last played it for you."

"Be my guest," Sherlock shrugs as his hand gestures freely into the air.

Quiet falls softly into the air of the room as you lift your instrument and ready yourself for your performance. Both you and Sherlock revel in the silence as you imagine the introduction to the concerto's music, before you begin to play. The intensity of your sound fills the room, sometimes soft and tender, and other times demanding attention with the tension it creates. You sway slightly in time with your notes, letting yourself be truly absorbed within the freedom of expression without words.

Pouring yourself into the rich and dark music, you fail to notice the almost silent footfalls climbing up the stairs to 221B, accompanied by silver hair flashing ever so slightly in the London sun from the windows. Sherlock shifts his gaze to Greg while silently raising a finger to his mouth in warning, receiving a nod of understanding in response as Greg stands in the door to the flat. 

Both men remain motionless as you continued to caress strings with the most delicate of touches, creating a world of sound that the Detective Inspector would later swear on his life came from heaven above. When the music comes to an end, quiet reigns within the room for a few sacred seconds as the final vibrations finish reverberating against the flat's walls.

Eventually you open your eyes as the moment fades, revealing the gobsmacked face of Greg whose slightly opened mouth seems incapable of forming words. Your eyebrows crease in slight confusion as your gaze sweeps from Greg's speechlessness to Sherlock's dry expression and back again. You silently wonder what the matter is.

"You might want to think about closing your mouth now, Graham," Sherlock says idly as he stands and saunters into the kitchen, hiding a small smile as he turns away.

"But–that was–(Y/n), that was beautiful! Beyond amazing, it was brilliant, fantastic, I don't even have the words to-" Greg cuts himself off with an amazed shake of his head as he searches for the right words. He shrugs off his coat as he takes a step forward towards you and his easy, warm grin fills his face. "Next concert of yours, I'll be in the front row, (Y/n). You can count on that."

You blush at the extent of Greg's praise, glad that he enjoyed your performance as rough as it was. "Thanks Greg. I've been working on it for a while, so I'm glad to hear I'm heading in the right direction," you say with a shy smile. A warm feeling in your stomach flares at Greg's honest enjoyment for a brief moment.

A sigh of contentment escapes your mouth as you fall into the couch to take a brief rest. At that moment Sherlock strides back into the sitting room. He flops into his armchair and considers you for some time, while brusquely dismissing Greg's words. "As I have made abundantly clear in the past, (Y/N), beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and models." He pauses in contemplation for a moment while you school the expression on your face in preparation for his usual barrage of potential ideas and corrections. "However in this case...I tend to agree with Geoffrey."

Your face lights up at Sherlock's words; his praise is rare and hard earnt, and you have come to value it greatly. The small smile on your face begins to grow as you recline into couch and gaze happily at the ceiling while Greg rolls his eyes at Sherlock's deliberate misuse of his name. While the two of them begin to discuss their latest crime scene, you comb through your playing further with their low voices serving as your ambient soundtrack. This process usually takes you anywhere between minutes to hours, and when you eventually emerge from your reflection, Greg is busying himself with putting his coat back on as he faces the flat's main door.

"You heading downstairs, (Y/n)?" Greg asks as he adjusts his coat further.

"I was just about to pop into my flat, I'll come see you out," you reply easily. He flashes you another of his warm grins in response, to which you blush a little at. Sherlock narrows his eyes ever so slightly as he observes the interaction between you and Greg, mentally cataloguing the encounter in a new file on his mental hard drive. Oblivious to this, Greg offers you his hand to help you get up from the couch, and the two of you make your way on to Baker Street. The brief contact between your hands tingles.

Out on the front step, Greg pauses as he's about to turn away and walk off, hesitating for a second before sweeping his eyes back on to your (e/c) ones. You fiddle with a strand of (h/c) hair and bite your lip as you wait for him to speak whatever is on his mind. 

"So, uh–(Y/n)." Greg looks down at the concrete for a moment, scuffing his feet on the pavement. "I'm glad I got to see you today, actually. Your playing was...out of this world, really."

Once more your cheeks go pink. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Greg."

He smiles readily again, something bright glinting in his eyes. "Anyway, I-I wanted to ask you something, (Y/n)." His gaze is cautiously back on to your eyes. "Would you maybe want to go out for dinner with me sometime? Or drinks, coffee, anything really I'm not–"

"I'd love to, Greg!" You interrupt him quickly with a brighter smile, before he comes to the wrong conclusion. Both you and Greg stand still for a moment while a few butterflies come to life in your stomach. 

With a soft laugh, he drops his gaze before quickly returning it to you and winking as he lightly kisses your cheek before turning away. "I'll be seeing you soon then, (F/n) (L/n)," Greg calls out cheekily as he strides towards his police cruiser. You shake your head in amusement and wonder, waving at him as he climbs into the car before reentering your home and gently shutting the door.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft's heart lurches as he catches Greg's words and your reply on the wind from the corner of the block. His expression is frozen as he watches you wave happily at Greg before retreating back inside.

The wretched words of  _"...dinner with me? ...drinks, coffee, anything?"_  along with the accompanying figures of  _"I'd love to, Greg!"_ ,  _"I'll be seeing you soon then, (F/n) (L/n),"_  and that god forsaken wink let alone the _kiss_  echo in his mind endlessly as he stands rooted to the spot. Something that appears much like heartbreak flashes in Mycroft's eyes as a lump forms in his throat.

Clearing his throat, steel returns to Mycroft's expression as he swallows down even the slightest hint of sentiment. He blinks exactly twice before resuming his walk to you and Sherlock's front door, his face composed in his usual blank manner. Mycroft breathes heavily and strides forward, as if he hasn't just fallen off from a world that had just tilted completely on its axis.


	2. Armour, Enamoured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a slightly longer chapter. I'm hoping to update this fic very regularly, but life is looking like it might get in the way so a bit of waiting may be necessary on your part. Apologies in advance!

**September 9**

Mycroft shoves the front door open and marches up the stairs, two at a time, until he somehow finds himself standing in front of your face. "Hi, Mycroft! Haven't seen you in a while, how've you been?" you ask. You've got that shy smile painted on your face, but Mycroft can't bring himself to meet your eyes. 

He schools his face into a blank, unreadable wall, even as his heart jumps in his chest. Muttering a vague hello, he pushes past you and into the sitting room. The smile on your face and the accompanying happiness of seeing your friend disappears into the depths of a frown while your shoulder is jostled and you're left facing the empty doorway. 

Proceeding to make himself at home in Sherlock's armchair, Mycroft pointedly stares into the kitchen at Sherlock's back, doing anything to distract him from the hurt that flashes in your (e/c) eyes and jabs his throat at the same time. He carefully aligns his body to face away from you, having turned away from the door to face him. Your confusion radiates towards him through your gaze, twisting the knife in him. But it's better this way, Mycroft tells himself firmly. It's the only method he knows can protect the small and fragile heart that he's hidden away for so long, and it wouldn't do to forget that. You don't want him. That being the case, there is no reason to continue to allow himself to be subjected to your charms. 

Meanwhile, you stare at him and watch the walls that'd been slowly falling away ever since the two of you met be thrown back up even higher than before.  _Why?_  You ask yourself this repeatedly as you continue to consider him, and how he refuses to even look at you. An air of haughty condescension begins to permeate the room, making it feel colder even though the sun was still shining.

You slowly make towards John's chair and settle yourself into it. As you look up, the full force of Mycroft's glare now bores into you, making you feel as if you've shrunk into a quarter of your real size. Opening and closing your mouth fruitlessly, your stomach twists in anxiety. Have you done something wrong to Mycroft, you wonder, or does he blame you for something Sherlock has done recently? You rack your brain for any recent incidents, but can think of none. 

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Your question hangs in the air as Mycroft purses his lips and shakes his head coldly, all the while looking away from you. There's no indication that he's wrestling with his mind to prevent himself from saying yes to your offer wholeheartedly, that it's breaking him inside to look at you with such coolness when you were being so kind. 

"Maybe some biscuits? Mrs Hudson's just made a fresh batch today–" you try again, desperation creeping into your voice as you lean forward towards him.

"I'm quite alright thank you, (F/n)," Mycroft mutters under his breath, audible in the unusually quiet space of 221B. He shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the fact that he hasn't managed to banish the slight quaver in his voice.

You swallow and nod once. Mycroft markedly avoids your gaze while you try to search his face for an answer. They don't call him the British government for nothing, you muse, as you struggle to find purchase in any part of his face. Feeling dejected, you resign yourself to staring at your lap and the floor.

Sherlock pauses from his work and flicks his eyes over to the scene from his microscope on the kitchen table. Arching an eyebrow, he takes in Mycroft's closed off posture, your eyes glued to the ground and the silence that’s so remarkably different to that which enveloped the room after you finished playing the Sibelius an hour ago. Eventually he stands fluidly and steps into the sitting room, deciding he's inflicted enough awkward silence on all parties currently involved.

The inquiring quirk in Sherlock's eyes goes ignored by Mycroft as the two brothers nod in acknowledgment of the other. Mycroft's eyes involuntarily sweep towards you so quickly before he clears his throat that Sherlock almost misses it. "Brother dear, I have a rather pressing case that I'm hoping to pass into your hands next week. It involves some, shall we say," he pauses, internally checking that his voice is even in every way, "...legwork. I'd rather hoped that you and (F/n) could resolve if for me as a favour."

At the mention of your name, Sherlock frowns and looks to you before quickly landing his gaze back on Mycroft. He catches a minute tightening of Mycroft's lips before they curve into an empty smile. Meanwhile, your face is shrouded with confusion again; first you're ignored, now you're being asked to go on a case as a favour?

Sherlock tuts loudly. "I'm busy," he admonishes. "Far too busy to run around with your little government spies breathing down my neck every time I so much as move a finger." Turning around, he returns to his microscope and waves his hand carelessly in the air. "Besides; (F/n) has several engagements next week, between her concerts and other...social commitments." Sherlock winks at you and a sigh falls from your face in return. It hadn't take him long to work it out, had it?

A beast awakes in Mycroft's chest, unbeknownst to anyone else in the room. It clamours for attention, roaring and rumbling inside him. Externally, he exhales and closes his eyes. "It's a pressing case, Sherlock. Far more so than your mould cultures or whatever it is you insist on examining on that microscope of yours," he sneers.

Eyes still fixed on the microscope before him, Sherlock shrugs. "Irrelevant. In any case, (F/n) will be busy with getting herself a...goldfish in the coming week. We wouldn't want to disturb that, now would we?" With these words he turns to face his brother with a smirk. 

Unsurprisingly, you've lost track of the conversation as you often do with the Holmes brothers. While you're getting increasingly better at deciphering the web of sibling rivalries, ancient jibes and vacant facial expressions that Sherlock and Mycroft employ on each other, you're still far from an expert. Evidently you're missing something of importance regarding goldfish, for some reason.

Mycroft's eyes tighten noticeably. You look at him with concern as he stiffens and clears his threat loudly. Internally he hears klaxons blaring within his mind, warning him to abort the suicide mission he's apparently put himself on. The beast in his chest roars threateningly. His demeanour gets visibly colder, as if he's donning armour only he can see. But what he's protecting himself from is still unknown to you.

"That's...nice," he forces himself to say vaguely, voice feeling very far away. Standing up abruptly, Mycroft steps quickly towards the door. "Well then brother mine, I hope you reconsider," he says brusquely, nodding once to Sherlock and once to you while not meeting either of your eyes. "Good day." On that note he strides quickly out of the room. They hear the front door slam moments later.

You stare at the door for the next few moments, mouth hanging slightly open in confusion. "What was that about?" You turn around to face Sherlock and his microscope as you wonder aloud. "And what did you mean about a goldfish?"

"He's just being Mycroft," Sherlock says offhandedly, ignoring your second question entirely. "It's an impossible task as I'm well aware, but do try not to let it get to you." He returns his concentration back to the microscope, apparently ending the conversation.

But something is uneasy within you; your excitement about your date with Greg has deflated into worry for Mycroft. Admittedly you'd never been the closest of friends, but you'd always felt an affinity with him. Looking out for Sherlock for all those months had produced an easy companionship with him that now feels like it's been fractured for no apparent reason. You bite your lip and stare at nothing. What was going on in the mind of Mycroft Holmes? 

 

* * *

 

 

Fuming, Mycroft climbs into one of his trademark black cars. With a curt order, the car finds itself outside the Diogenes Club just as the sun begins to dip below the surrounding trees. The time of day barely constitutes a drink but Mycroft relents and allows himself a glass of scotch in his office, which turns into several and then many glasses within the following hours.

Images from the past and what he presumes will be the future flash in his mind on repeat, and he doesn't have the control to even try and stop them anymore.

(F/n)'s laugh when she first met him, and thought he was joking about spying on Sherlock for money.

_Greg cracking a joke in that easy manner of his, bringing out (F/n)'s beautiful laugh with an ease that Mycroft could never manage._

The tickle of (F/n)'s breath on his ear when she whispers to him about Sherlock's mood at the bottom of the stairs to 221B.

_(F/n)'s breath in Greg's mouth instead of his because he was too late._

Mycroft shudders. He never should have believed that he had a chance with someone like (F/n). He had nothing to offer her, he realised; he worked all the time, was intermittently rude to her and even his body was nowhere near ideal. Looking down at his stomach that refused to lie flat and touching his auburn hair that had never come to life as much Sherlock's had, Mycroft knew at once that you would want someone far better than him. And that was a good thing, he decides, ignoring the twang in his heart. You deserve better.

He downs another glass of scotch as his eyes trembles ever so slightly. Offhandedly, he observes that he feels quite drunk for the first time he can remember in years, before promptly feeling sick to his stomach and falling forward to the floor in search of a bin to throw up in. 

After he's finished throwing up, he's miserable. Then his phone rings, cutting through the silence.

**CALLER ID: (F/n) (L/n)**

Mycroft freezes. Does he dare answer your call in the state he's in? You never call him, he thinks; you only ever text him a maximum of eight times in total during a week. Is something wrong?

The ringing abruptly halts. He stares at the phone, cursing himself inside for not picking up while also trying to convince himself that you've probably called the wrong number anyway.

The phone rings again. 

**CALLER ID: (F/n) (L/n)**

This time Mycroft scrambles to grab the phone from its precarious position on his table, knocking over a stack of documents that could start a war in the South China Sea in the process. Hurriedly he picks up, half-shouting his "Hello?" and kicking himself for it immediately.

He hears the hesitation in your voice as you pause. "Hi, Mycroft," you say hesitantly.

"What is it that you want, (F/n)? Surely my dear brother can keep you entertained for even one night?" The words fall out of Mycroft's mouth with a slur as his mind melts in horror at the words he's saying.

Silence meets that proclamation. You finally speak. "This was a mistake... I–uh, I obviously shouldn't have disturbed you tonight Mycroft. You seemed a bit off today so I just wanted to check if you were alright, but I guess I'll talk to you when–"

"No, no, no, no, no," Mycroft desperately shouts again as he fights for control over his mind. "I'm sorry, (F/n), I'm so sorry. You're right. I'm having a bad night. A very bad night. I–well in a manner of speaking–I've been–" He struggles to get coherent words out of his mouth and to his dismay feels moisture in his eyes. There's no way that she'll ever want him now, knowing that he's so out of control and rude as Mummy had always said he was, (F/n) will never–

Your worry is clearly evident in the edge of your voice. "What's wrong, Mycroft? Is there something I can do to help?" You wait for a reply but receive only a quiet wordless moan. You frown in concern. "Mycroft? Can you hear me? Where are you?"

"Diogenes," Mycroft manages to splutter out. He's clutching his chest as another wave of nausea rocks him. "(F/n), please, I'm...fine, just a bit ill, there's no need for any concern. I'll speak," he pauses to cough loudly, "I'll speak to you in the morning. Goodnight–"

You interrupt him before he can finish his sentence and hang up on you. "No, Mycroft, I'm coming over there. I don't know what you've taken or done, but please, hold on until I get to you, alright?" You're alarmed when all you hear in response is sniffs and what for a second almost sounds like choked back sobs. You think you've heard something resembling an affirmative alright croaked out as you reassure him again. "I'm on my way, Mycroft, don't worry. You're going to be fine."

The phone line goes dead. Mycroft stares at the device in his hand, dreading your arrival and your reaction. Climbing to his feet, he rubs his face with his hands and attempts to rebuild the armour that he has so thoroughly dismantled tonight. (F/n) must not see you in such a state, he admonishes himself, lest she think you to be even more awful than he already is. Though it's a deserved reputation he's given himself, he notes sadly. He sits down in his chair with a groan, closing his eyes when the room starts to spin and trying not to think of the mess he's made of his own office, and what (F/n) will think when she sees such a dishevelled, ridiculous person amongst all the papers strewn everywhere. 

As he raises his glass for another sip of courage, he hears a knock on the door before it opens slightly and reveals your frame in the doorway. Mycroft jerkily lowers the glass he is holding and instead drops his face to his hands to hide, wondering how he could ever have created this torture for himself. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise when you see Mycroft hunched over at his desk, jacket thrown haphazardly on the back of his chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His top button is loose as is his tie, an abrupt break from his usually meticulous image. You've never seen him look so wild. As you scan the room, you catch sight of a half empty whiskey tumbler and your mouth gapes open in surprise. What had Mycroft been doing? Why on earth was he drinking so much tonight?

Well, you muse, it certainly explains the slurring over the phone. And the rudeness and desperation too, truth be told, which had been worse than she'd heard from him in a long time, even counting this morning. Quietly, you pace towards him as you gracefully try to avoid the highly confidential papers scattered on the floor and take a seat in front of him. You wait for him to speak as he slowly lifts his face from his hands, revealing an anguished expression you've never seen or even imagined on his face before.

Gently, you lay a hand on his as you look carefully into Mycroft's reddened eyes. As soon as you make contact he pulls his hand back as if he's been touched with a burning hot poker, mouth turned upside down in an unhappy expression. You apologise quickly, feeling guilty for making him feel worse than better.

The two of you sit in silence for what seems to stretch on for hours. Eventually Mycroft lifts his gaze to meet yours, cool blue on (e/c). His eyes shift slowly between your hair, eyes, nose and lips before he closes them for a second and sighs.

"Mycroft–" you begin.

"You shouldn't be seeing me like this, my dear," he interrupts in what he hopes is a firm voice. You sit mute, at a loss as to what to say. He smiles a sad, wan smile. 

Quiet descends for a few more moments before you gather the courage to speak again. You sigh and lick your lips quickly. "You're always looking after people, Mycroft. I just thought that for once, you could do with someone watching out for you." You chance a look up to Mycroft's face to discover his eyes are wide open and peering at yours with a stunned expression.  

Very hesitantly, he leans forward and lays his hands back out on the table, an open invitation. You slowly reach out to him and take his hands gently, before beginning to trace soothing circles into his palms. Looking up, he looks distinctly uncomfortable, yet curious. He shifts in his seat as if he wants to move away from the touch.

Flushed, you begin to withdraw your hands. It was no good trying if all you did was make him feel worse, you tell yourself miserably. Clearly you don't know him well enough to be of any help. But unexpectedly, Mycroft grasps the sleeve of your jacket as you go to pull your arms into your chest. You freeze before shooting him a questioning look, wondering for the millionth time what on earth went on in his mind.

"Forgive me," Mycroft says apologetically, the slurring of his words improving slightly. "I'm just...unused to the idea of someone caring about me." ( _Especially someone like you!_ , the voice in the back of his head sings.) He looks away as the lump in his throats threatens to swell to gigantic proportions and his head begins to pound.

Your eyes soften. How could Mycroft possibly think that he wasn't cared for? It takes you a few seconds for you to find your voice, and a few more to select the right words. "Well _I_ care about you, Myc. You should know that by now," you say fiercely. Your fingers return to tracing shapes softly into his hands.

 _My_ _c_ _? And (F/n) cares for me?_  Mycroft sags in his seat and laughs hollowly. _I should get drunk more often if this is the result of it,_ he thinks tiredly. "I would be very unimpressed if anyone else called me that, (F/n)," he whispers. You spin in front of him along with the rest of the room. He wonders briefly how he got the courage to say that, before he begins to worry that he won't remember this in the morning. Brushing a thumb across your wrists, Mycroft feverishly begins to build a new room in his mind palace so that he'll never forget the feeling of your soft skin in his hands.

A shiver runs through you as you feel Mycroft's light touch. Steeling yourself to carry on, you swallow and ask him softly. "So tell me then, Myc, what's the matter? What drove you to this?"

To your alarm, he pulls away roughly and staggers as he stands. His eyes rake the room wildly, as if he's looking for a way to escape. You stand quickly and grab his arm to stabilise him as he lurches sideways. Leading him back to his chair, you guide him back downwards as he covers his face again.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," you say soothingly, seating yourself back down in your own chair. "You don't need to tell me anything you don't want to, Myc. But you know you can always talk to me, don't you?" 

Mycroft laughs so softly to himself, you aren't sure if you imagined it or if it was real. "No-one can know, (F/n)," he says brokenly. "No-one."

"Alright," you murmur back, worried. "Alright, Myc. But I think it's time we got you back home, okay? How about that?"

He nods and though you don't notice, for just a second his lips curve upwards when you throw his arm over your waist and you tightly hold his. Together you abandon the whiskey tumbler and the mess of Mycroft's office for the interior of a cab, speeding swiftly towards a Kensington home.


	3. Flowers Abound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: (F/i) = first initial, (L/i) = last initial.

**September 10**

Mycroft wakes alone and decidedly drenched in sweat. His bedroom is still a little blurry to his eyes when they open, accompanying the headache raging through him and the dregs of nausea working their way out of his system. The crisply pressed lines of his long sleeved shirt and trousers are creased beyond recognition, and his tie flops loosely on his chest. 

A groan falls out of Mycroft's mouth as sensation bombards him. Jerking upwards with a grunt, Mycroft's eyebrows knit in confusion as he tries to recall how exactly he got into his bed and fails. For a brief moment he wonders exactly how much scotch he had last night, before closing his eyes and sinking into the familiarity of his mind to search for answers.

Much like Sherlock's, Mycroft's mind palace is dominated by bright white tones and hallways marked by varnished wood.   He strolls down the corridors in no particular hurry, inspecting a door every so often to ensure nothing has changed. A singular goldfish remains in the pond in the garden, the library is as undisturbed as ever and the bed in the master bedroom still made and tidy.

That is, with the small exception of a new door in the corner of the aforementioned bedroom. Frowning, Mycroft peers at it as he steps slowly towards it. The door is simple, yet polished and refined –  _not unlike (F/n)_ , a disembodied rendition of his voice notes – and stands open by an inch. 

Mycroft hesitates for a second when his hand rests on the door handle. How did this door even get here if he hadn't put it there?

 _Unless you yourself put it there last night_ , the voice suggests with a sly tone. Mycroft frowns as he pushes it open gingerly, letting images from last night pour through towards him.

_You taking Mycroft's hands and tracing smooth and comforting shapes with your soft hands._

_Mycroft half asleep in the back of the cab, accidentally falling on your shoulder and staying there for the rest of the ride._

_Your fingers gripping ever so slightly around his shoulder, making sure Mycroft wouldn't fall._

With a panicked cry, Mycroft wrenches himself out of his mind palace as his eyes fly open. He breathes hard and grips the covers between his fingers, grateful for the tactile reminder that he was in fact awake and not dreaming as he must've been to have seen you touching him so tenderly. It was unusual for him to recall a dream so clearly and vividly, he thinks with a touch of bitterness, though it's unsurprising that he'd remember something like this which he wanted so desperately. The images continue to play in Mycroft's mind, and for a little while he allows himself to indulge in the feeling of your soft hands in his. 

A few minutes later he sighs and pulls himself back into reality. Mycroft ruefully rubs his eyes before promptly rolling over and staggering out of bed. Once standing, he narrows his eyes as he sees something small and white sitting on his bedside table next to his alarm, out of place among the meticulous tidiness of his bedroom. Eyebrows knitting in confusion, Mycroft reaches towards it and starts in surprise when he notices his name in your tidy scrawl on the piece of paper. Unfolding it with some trepidation, he begins to read.

_Myc,_

_I'm so sorry that I couldn't stay longer after getting you home last night; I forgot that I had an appointment with my physiotherapist this morning that I couldn't reschedule. I hope you're not feeling too under the weather when you wake up, but if you are, I've left some paracetamol and water for you on the kitchen counter should you need it._

_Before you assume that I somehow found your address and broke into your house to get you into bed, I should warn you that I had to ask Sherlock where you lived last night. He had Anthea disable the security and told me where the spare key was when I arrived with you. You weren't exactly making sense at the time, or I would've asked you...sorry about that one. Didn't mean to give Sherlock a point in your brotherly competition!_

_Again, I'm sorry I couldn't stay for longer. But please, please let me know if you need anything or someone to talk to; my door is always open for you. You know that._

_(F/i) (L/i)_

As he reaches the end of the note, Mycroft stares at it wordlessly and shakes his head in disbelief. What on earth had he done to deserve such kindness from you? He touches the piece of paper again in awe, wondering for a brief second if he was still dreaming, even though he knew perfectly well that he was awake. Five minutes morph into ten as Mycroft continues to reread the note. He bites his lip as he shifts backwards on to his pillows, brow furrowed in thought.  _If this note is in his bedroom_ _, he reasons,_ _could it be that the images of you with him are real too?_

Unnerved, Mycroft abruptly brings himself to standing height next to his bed. With the utmost care, he places your note back on the bedside table as he paces out of his bedroom and into the bright open space that is the rest of his house. As promised, he spots two paracetamol pills and a glass of water waiting for him on the marble bench top of his kitchen. Mycroft swallows them down gratefully, marvelling at the idea that last night may really have happened. 

While his hands move to make his first cup of tea for the day, Mycroft's mind is analysing the facts of the situation with laser speed, combining fact after fact in ways far beyond anything but his own brain. Thoughts continue to fire as he waits for his toast to brown and they don't cease when the toaster bell rings and he starts spreading strawberry jam on the slices. His mind doesn't halt while he chews, swallows then rinses, washes and dries his plate. 

Coming to a momentary pause, he absentmindedly observes light filling the kitchen and living rooms, revealing a terrace house with soaring ceilings and furnishings that display the understated kind of opulence Mycroft favours. His eyes sweep around the paintings lining the walls, the warm timber floors and all the books and papers stacked neatly in piles on his dining table. Everything is in its place...except for a cushion pushed out of place on his sofa and a bar stool sitting at an angle from the kitchen counter. A smile comes to Mycroft's face as he imagines you taking a seat as you pour a glass of water and grab painkillers from your handbag's emergency stock. 

The house feels more lived in after having you in it, Mycroft decides, as he makes his first efforts to still his mind since it began its frenzy. You'd come to help him last night. He's sure of it.

* * *

 

The day passes slowly. Though it's a Saturday, Mycroft unsurprisingly finds himself being summoned to his office; this time for fear that war is on not so far horizon in the South China Sea. His lips curl into a brief smile as he remembers knocking over his papers on the subject last night in his rush to answer your call. 

Mycroft's good mood shows; his receptionist gapes when he smiles at her as he passes her desk, wishing her a pleasant, "Good morning!" before smiling and waving as he sweeps into his office. Anthea is more than taken aback to see a takeaway mug of her usual coffee waiting for her on Mycroft's desk when she first enters to brief him on the day's commitments.

He's in the middle of a conference call when the memory of you cradling his hands in your own slides unbidden into his mind. The Prime Minister has to impatiently bark Mycroft's name twice before he realises he's been daydreaming of you like a teenager, in the middle of a Cabinet meeting no less. Hastily, Mycroft apologises and denies that he's anything less than a hundred percent focussed on the task ahead of him.

When the phone clicks off as the call ends, Mycroft immediately picks up his personal phone. His finger hovers over the keyboard, struggling to find the right words to say to you.

 ~~You saved me from myself last night and I don't think you even realised it.  
MH~~ ~~~~

~~I don't have enough words to say thank you properly (F/n); let me take you out to dinner tonight so I can show you instead.~~ ~~  
MH~~

 _Thank you for your help last night, (F/n)._ _  
MH_

Almost hovering with nervousness, Mycroft taps the send button before settling back in his armchair. He shuffles papers around his desk but can't bring himself to concentrate on any of them, glancing back every few seconds to his phone. 

Minutes pass and Mycroft forces himself to stare at his latest report on the Chinese government's newest submarine fleet. He scans the pages quickly, absorbing the information and analysing it in seconds. Or at least he thinks that's what he's doing; it takes him more than half a minute to realise that he's been reading the same line over and over absentmindedly. Sighing, Mycroft's eyes flick back to his decidedly quiet phone before lifting to stare back at the report. 

He's almost gotten himself to a point where he can read a paragraph before checking his phone when it vibrates loudly. The Chinese report slips from Mycroft's fingers as he scoops up his phone and unlocks it in the same motion upon seeing your name pop up on his screen.

 _Always here for you if you need me Myc...glad I could help last night._  
_(F/i) (L/i)_

_PS I'm home tonight if you want to talk about anything. Just let me know._

Mycroft exhales loudly before firmly shifting his posture and sitting straighter. Calling for Anthea from outside, she greets him with a questioning look when she enters his office. Her eyebrows climb even further when Mycroft greets her with a smile and tells her to clear his evening schedule and go home early. 

* * *

People in the street blur into the background as Mycroft watches on, speeding past in one of his black cars. He bites his lip consideringly, tapping his leather shoes absentmindedly on the car door. Work feels like it's miles away even though he left only minutes ago; Mycroft can't remember the last time he was this excited to leave the office. 

The car slows as it approaches a bright shopfront, one that stands out from the rest of London's grey surrounding it. Peering out of the window, Mycroft's hand tremors slightly for a second and betrays the undercurrent of nervousness slowly awakening in his chest. He sighs and nods firmly to himself as if to confirm that he's making the right decision, before grasping the door handle and pushing the door open strongly. 

A breeze greets him as his umbrella drags on the wet ground. Pulling his coat tighter around his waist by a fraction, Mycroft strides confidently in to the shop, only to come to a halt seconds later when his eyes are assaulted by a vast array of colours and smells crammed into the small store ahead of him. He blinks rapidly as he tries to take in the many different types of flowers in front of him. Regaining his equilibrium, he coughs as if nothing had happened and sweeps his eyes around the room. What exactly he's looking for he doesn't know, but there must be something suitable for you in amongst–

"Welcome to Aflorum! How may I help you today Mr...." A smiling blonde woman holding several bunches of flowers suddenly appears beside Mycroft, who whirls in alarm and almost knocks over a vase of tulips with his umbrella in the process.

"Holmes. Mr Holmes," he replies. The florist sees nothing but a well-dressed and pleasant man, and doesn't realise that it's a facade covering raw anxiousness and fear of both disappointment and rejection. Mycroft clears his throat. "I'm looking for some flowers as a gift for...for a woman I care for very deeply."

Nodding wisely several times silently, the blonde woman promptly drops the flowers she's holding into an empty jar before beginning to bustle around the small shop. She makes several humming noises in consideration as she glances at one bunch of flowers and another. 

"What's she like, this girl you care for very deeply?" the florist calls out to Mycroft with her back towards him, still touching different bunches and shaking her head profusely every few seconds.

A dusting of pink warms Mycroft's cheeks as he thinks of you. "She's the kindest person I know, as well as being very generous with her time. I've never met anyone so modest and humble; she lives as simple a life as she can and doesn't need everyone to know how fantastic she is. The world already knows." The corners of Mycroft's lips lift into a small smile. "And of course, she's very beautiful."

The florist turns to consider Mycroft. "It sounds like you're very lucky to have her, Mr Holmes," she says with a serene smile as she begins to deftly choose and pick up bunches of different flowers.

Mycroft shifts his weight uneasily as he stands and frowns. "It's not really like that–" he begins uncomfortably.

A pointed look on the florist's face grows.

"Point taken," Mycroft mutters to the floor.

The woman brings an assortment of blooms to a work bench and slowly begins to sort them. She suddenly looks up and frowns. "I forgot to ask! What's your budget, Mr Holmes? Here I was, making assumptions–"

"Price is of no concern," Mycroft interrupts smoothly, anticipating further exclamations and therefore delays in getting this bouquet to you tonight.

The flurry of speech coming from the florist's mouth comes to a quick halt as the woman's brow creases for a second. She starts to wonder who on earth this man was, and what this woman is to him, before shrugging and striding to grab more lisianthus and freesia stems. If this man wants a real bouquet, she's more than happy to oblige, she muses.

Quiet minutes pass and the bouquet begins to take form, accompanied by the soft humming of the blonde woman's favourite songs. Her hands move with practiced ease, years of experience displaying themselves without a word. Eventually she looks up at Mycroft, who is watching on with interest while leaning on the door frame, and speaks. "Would you prefer daisies or hydrangeas to finish the bouquet?"

A frown appears on Mycroft's face. He'd deleted all of his technical knowledge on flowers long ago after he'd been bombarded by questions from Sherlock regarding John's wedding, and had seen no reason to restore it since. How is he supposed to choose between daisies and hydrangeas when he can't even remember the differences in the symbolism of each of them?

As Mycroft deliberates, his phone vibrates loudly in his pocket. Optimistically hoping it's a message from you, he immediately takes the phone from his pocket and unlocks it. He's sorely disappointed and instead of a smile, a grimace mars his face.

 _(F/n) loves hydrangeas. They would go quite well with the lilies and orchids, as well as those lisianthus blooms._ _  
SH_

Not quite believing that he's actually receiving a text of brotherly advice on flowers of all things from Sherlock, Mycroft squints and contemplates the screen for exactly three seconds longer than normal. His eyes lift to sweep the room suspiciously as he presses his lips together. "The hydrangeas would be preferable," he murmurs, trying to feel dissatisfied with Sherlock but instead feeling grateful that you would like at least one of the flowers in the bouquet.

The florist beams. "Good choice! She'll love them," she promises with a firm nod, arranging the hydrangeas in as a finishing touch to the frankly huge bouquet. "I'm sure of it."

Miriam, the florist's name as he discovers over the till while paying, insists as he leaves that he takes a tall vase for the flowers to stand in later. She argues that it's the least she can do; after all, Mycroft has just fed her family of three for the next two days with the amount of money he swiped his credit card for. It takes him several minutes to extricate himself from her well-wishing for his relationship with you, and several more to manoeuvre himself into the black car that arrives on the street without crushing any of the blooms.

And so Mycroft eventually finds himself in a daze clutching the flowers for you, vase under his arm, on the doorstep of 221B. Pollen tickles his nose briefly as he hesitates on the front step. He frowns, considering the wisdom of what he's about to attempt. Swallowing in his throat, Mycroft takes a step back while blinking.

His phone vibrates again. Out of habit and equally from hope, he grabs it out of his pocket gingerly while balancing the bouquet and checks the message.

 _Hurry up and get inside if you're going to insist on wooing (F/n), instead of behaving like a confused client at my front door._ _  
SH_

Mycroft's eyebrows climb as he rereads the text. Glancing up at the windows above him, he catches sight of Sherlock rolling his eyes before dramatically throwing the curtains shut. 

He tightens his grip around the bouquet of flowers in his hand. Straightening his back and taking in a deep breath, Mycroft knocks on the door.


	4. An Exchange, A Gift Accepted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update has taken so long! Life got in the way of writing. Hope you guys enjoy the chapter.

**September 10**

It's John's face with a visibly confused expression that greets Mycroft at the door. He takes one look at the flowers in front of him before his gaze shoots back up to eye level, unable to figure out what game Mycroft was playing at. Sighing after a lengthy pause, John moves out of the way to let him in. "I'm not even going to ask why you have those," he says, shaking his head as he shuts the door behind Mycroft. 

Cheeks reddening, Mycroft grips the bouquet tighter. "Is (F/n) here?" he asks.

John's eyebrows rise. "She's upstairs. Why?"

Mycroft ignores the question and instead moves towards the stairs when John unexpectedly grabs his arm firmly. A look of questioning irritation settles on Mycroft's face as John begins to speak. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to do but whatever it is, please, please don't play games with (F/n)'s feelings. You know she deserves better than that," John says with a hard look in his eyes.

An involuntary shiver rolls down Mycroft's spine; was his reputation so bad that John's first assumption when seeing Mycroft with flowers for you was that he was going to manipulate you? "I assure you that I'm about to do no such thing," he replies curtly. "These are a gift for some assistance she gave me last night, being the remarkably kind person that she is."

John blinks as his mouth immediately opens to hotly contest Mycroft's words and promptly shuts when he processes what's just been said. He narrows his eyes for a few moments as he searches Mycroft's eyes for traces of deceit, before eventually abandoning his search and releasing his grip, albeit reluctantly.

The stairs creak gently as Mycroft treads forward. Voices fill the air, their tones alternating between amused and annoyed; his chest blooms when he registers one of them as yours before Sherlock's baritone immediately unlocks his usual exasperation at his brother. Quietly, Mycroft stands just inside the door as John walks past him and settles on the couch, rolling his eyes at the chaos around him.

"I'm not your servant, Sherlock, I'm your bloody flat mate!" Your arms are gesticulating wildly, a plate in one of your hands, while the man in question sits passively, sipping a cup of tea in his armchair. A small smile touches Mycroft's face as you continue to scold Sherlock, not seeing you at the door. Sherlock's eyes fix on him, a triumphant smirk on his face to which Mycroft sighs dejectedly. "Toxic chemicals and dirty bowls do not belong in the same place, least of all in my kitchen; how hard is that to understand? Hasn't John taught you that by now?!"

You look ready to continue on your tirade for several more minutes at the least when Sherlock coughs and clears his throat before nodding his head towards the door. The half-shouted words coming from your mouth stop abruptly when you catch sight of Mycroft. Shock and confusion, surprise cycle through on your face. Your mouth opens but no words come out as he leans against the door frame with an anxious smile clutching the bouquet, stomach churning on the inside.

It's only the sight of you, breathtaking as it is to him, that keeps him from running away right in that instant. Mycroft doesn't  _do_  this kind of thing; he doesn't buy flowers for beautiful women unless as a business gift, in which case he waves his hand and gets Anthea to sort it out. He doesn't show up like a teenager with sweaty palms at a girl's door either, trying to woo her. Looking at you, he swallows nervously, feeling distinctly vulnerable.

Quiet reigns in 221B for a few moments. John switches between staring open mouthed at you and gaping at Mycroft, while Sherlock's face bears a guarded expression. He knows he's orchestrated a very delicate situation, one that will threaten to destroy the fine balance in the lives of both you and his brother if it goes wrong. 

You finally manage to close your mouth and swallow as you awkwardly put down the dirty plate you were previously brandishing at Sherlock. Taking the cue, Mycroft stumbles slightly forward to meet you in the middle of the room. He holds out the flowers to you gingerly. "These are for you, (F/n). For last night. I–I didn't know how else to thank you properly." Mycroft curses himself for mumbling as he panics internally. This was a mistake, he realises, you probably wanted to forget the awkwardness of the previous night and now he's gone and brought it back into the light. How could he have been so foolish? She must think him to be pathetic, so desperate–

Mycroft's thoughts come to a screeching halt as you gently cup his hand holding the flowers. A smile radiates from your face without you even realising; not even in your wildest dreams would you have expected Mycroft to show up at your front door with a beautiful bouquet for you. Impulsively, your free hand wraps around his body and without thought or concern you lightly press your lips lightly to his cheek before pulling him closer for a warm hug. Mycroft stands stiffly against you at first, before he relaxes into it. 

When you release him, you're both slightly dazed. Mycroft's fingers linger unnoticed for a second on the small of your back before they reluctantly retreat. His mind is trying desperately and failing to restore its emergency generators after shutting down moments ago. He's free falling; the abyss that he's feared for so long because it's so large he can't see the bottom of it no longer looms ahead of him, because he's fallen in head first to follow you. Deep down he knows he'll never escape, but somehow he's content as long as there's hope of you catching him on the way down.

Your skin is warm and still tingles from Mycroft's touch as your mind whirls in a frenzy, trying to comprehend what you've just done. Where on earth had that come from?! You're supposed to be looking forward to going out with Greg tomorrow, not going around kissing Mycroft Holmes, even if it was just on the cheek. And besides, it's not as if Mycroft even liked being touched by people, let alone being  _kissed_ ; you remembered with a slight ache how he'd pulled away from you last night when you'd gone to comfort him, let alone the frosty way he'd behaved towards you earlier in the day. The only time he's really, truly, been comfortable around you was when he'd been drunk, for god's sake.

You realise you're still awfully close to Mycroft's chest and shiver, before stepping away from him awkwardly as reality begins to reassert itself around you. There's no way that Mycroft would be interested in someone as simple and ordinary as yourself, you reason, even if you were interested in him. Which of course, you weren't. You had Greg and his easy smiles to think about, not Mycroft and his suits and mystery.

You look around the room with a nervous laugh, only to find that Sherlock and John have somehow snuck out and left you and Mycroft alone. Turning back to face the man himself, you wonder what he's thinking; his expression is indescribable. There's no way for you to know that he's swearing to himself that he will never treat you as poorly as he did yesterday again, and that he will do whatever is in his power to make you smile the way that you did earlier from now onwards.

Realising that he's still holding the flowers, Mycroft braces himself mentally as he reaches out to touch your hand and press the bouquet towards you gently. After a moment, he finally finds his voice. "I'm so sorry for yesterday, (F/n). I was just as rude as Sherlock, if not more, when you were just trying to be kind. I hope you can accept the flowers as both my apology and thanks." He clears his throat anxiously, trying to bring his mind to what he's saying and not to the feeling of your lips on his skin.

Something in you breaks a little as the walls that Mycroft has always hidden himself behind begin to come down slowly; now revealed is a man hurting, fearing that he'd driven you away with his harsh words. You grasp the bouquet and quickly pull him close to you again with your other hand for another hug, crumpling his suit in the process.

"Myc, you don't have to buy me flowers to say thank you or sorry," you mumble into the breast pocket of his suit. "I'm your friend, you know that. We all have our bad days." Mycroft says nothing but squeezes you a fraction tighter, and you know this gesture says more than anything he could ever say out loud.

Eventually you break apart, but this time the air is much calmer and fraught with far less tension. You take a proper look at the flowers in your hand, amazed at their fresh beauty, as Mycroft adjusts his suit and ruefully observes the folds in it. But as you continue to admire the flowers, your eyes narrow. You're no flower expert, but it was obvious that this bouquet wasn't one he picked up from the local Tesco on the way to Baker St.

You look up to Mycroft's face and waggle a finger jokingly at him before speaking. "Do I want to know how much these cost?"

A sheepish expression crosses Mycroft's face. "They were worth it to see the smile on your face before," he says, the words mortifyingly stumbling out of his mouth before he can get his mind under control. His heart starts beating uncontrollably fast as he mentally swears at himself for being such a sentimental fool. He fiddles with his cuffs and drops his gaze to the ground to avoid your eyes.

You freeze. Did those words actually come out of Mycroft Holmes' mouth? And why, why do you feel warm inside hearing them? 

Impulsively deciding to act with your gut and not your brain, you smile serenely and causally say, "Well I'm sure you'll see at least a few more smiles from me tonight at the rate you're going."

If the expression on Mycroft's face was indescribable before, it's clear as day now. His cheeks are pink and an embarrassed huff of a laugh escapes from him as he follows you stepping out of the room back down to 221C.

Once you're both downstairs and the flowers are in the vase that happened to be resting suspiciously close to your door, the two of you find yourselves sitting in an armchair in Mycroft's case and cross legged on your bed in yours, nursing a steaming mug of tea each. The silence is comfortable; neither of you feels the need to speak. In any case, Mycroft's chest is too busy doing somersaults for him to form complete sentences for the time being. Instead, he casts his eyes over the loose manuscript paper littered all over your desk, the photo frames holding precious memories on your mantle and the half-eaten container of Chinese takeaway that was sitting forgotten on the kitchen bench top. Had it been anyone else, Mycroft would sigh in distaste at the mess surrounding him. But you? He finds it surprisingly cosy and comforting.

Your eyes self-consciously follow the direction of Mycroft's gaze around the room as you shift the way you're sitting uncomfortably. "I know it's a mess, I've been meaning to clear it up for days but haven't gotten around to it yet," you apologise, throwing your hand carelessly in the direction of the chaos.

"Not at all," Mycroft replies, shaking his head after taking another sip of tea. How on earth do you know to make it exactly how he likes it? "It's rather comforting, if I'm honest. It's nice to escape the confines of everything being in a designated place sometimes, like they are in my home as you know."

A slight blush creeps on to your face. "I could never be that tidy," you confess with a laugh.

Mycroft chuckles softly in return before the companionable silence comes back to inhabit the room. His eyes catch sight of a photograph shoved into the corner of your desk, one of you laughing in the arms of a young man, handsome and tall with sandy hair. Something in Mycroft's stomach clenches tight. Who is this man, and how do you know him? He's never appeared in any of Mycroft's peeks into your life via CCTV footage, questionable as such actions are. The words _ex-boyfriend, lover, long-term_ flash in his mind and he goes cold.

Gulping down more tea, he tries to feign casualness as he prepares himself to speak again. "Who's that in the photo of you on your desk, (F/n)?" Mycroft crosses his right leg over his left, attempting to maintain the facade of casual interest instead of burning curiosity and even jealousy, if he could admit it to himself. It suddenly crosses his mind that there are no photos of him in the room, of course.

Squinting to figure out which photo Mycroft is talking about, you stiffen when you see the one he's referring to. A lump appears in your throat and you cough, trying to clear both your throat and your mind. Troubled, you clutch your mug tighter and look away from Mycroft's gently probing face.

"That's Sebastian," you hear yourself saying distantly. "We were together for a long time. Years, even." The floor suddenly becomes much more interesting to look at than Mycroft, even though you can feel his questioning and concerned gaze on you.

It's lucky that Mycroft has learnt absolute control over what emotions he shows to others, because inside him something erupts into a roar and threatens to rend him from the inside out. He's not sure which is worse; that this  _Sebastian_  has known you in ways that he may never get to, or that he's clearly hurt you significantly in some way in the past

Without thinking, he climbs out of the armchair he's sitting in and moves to sit next to you. Mycroft hesitantly winds his arm around your shoulder, taking care not to knock over any tea or to alarm you. For a while you sit there together and eventually you lean closer into his chest, take a deep breath and close your eyes. "He always said that he was working, that he was busy with business...but he'd been sleeping with other people for months by the time I ended it," you say quietly. 

Not knowing what to say, Mycroft sets down his mug and pulls you in closer. Internally he's trembling with rage that someone would dare be so cruel to you of all people, but externally he rubs your back in a way which he hopes is at least slightly comforting. 

You wish that Mycroft had never brought up the suggestion of Sebastian, but in a way you're grateful as you wouldn't have seen this side of him otherwise. Sitting there with him, you feel a sense of warmth and security that has long eluded you in recent months; you'd never have expected it, but the gentle feeling of Mycroft's touch makes the problems of the past melt away just a little bit. He smells of expensive cologne and something like old paper, and the blend is inviting and comforting to you. 

Suddenly though, he pulls away. Confused, you sit feeling colder and distinctly more alone while he stands from the bed and looks at you with a determined look on his face. You sigh. It was too good to be true and you knew it; Mycroft Holmes was never going to sit and listen to your life problems when he has the responsibility of the free world upon his shoulders. You should've known that his comfort had a limit to it.

In spite of your forlorn thoughts, it's clear to Mycroft that since he's brought up the subject of this man, it wasn't unlikely that you'd spend the rest of the night brooding and ruminating. Again he curses himself for bringing it up in the first place, before tearing through every option he can think of that could make you feel better. He flits through hundreds of hours’ worth of data on you in seconds before he breaks the silence and blurts out, "Let me take you out for dinner." 

Sighing and getting off the bed in search of tissues, you shake your head tiredly. "You don't have to do anything more to say thank you or sorry, Myc," you say quietly as you turn away for him towards the bathroom door. "It's all fine."

Mycroft catches your hand roughly with his own as you try to step past him. In surprise you flip back around, eyebrows raised and eyes questioning. With an apologetic look on his face, he quickly lets go of your hand and clears his throat. "You were a friend to me last night," Mycroft reminds you gently. "Won't you let me be the same to you when you need it?"

You hesitate and bite your lip. The offer seems genuine enough, even from one of the Holmes brothers, you muse internally. Looking down at Mycroft, he offers an encouraging smile; it's a look not often seen on his face, but it suits him rather well. Your arms cross as you shift your weight to your other leg. "Aren't you normally too busy saving the world as the British government to take people out to dinner?" you ask with a bit of a frown.

With a shrug, Mycroft stands next to you and motions towards the flowers brightening your mantle. "I'm also normally too busy to buy flowers for people," he reflects, an amused tone colouring his words. "But I'll make an exception for you, just this once." The jokingly stern look Mycroft employs raises a laugh out of you and in turn warms him in a way that he only experiences around you.

Finally, you nod in acquiescence towards him before grabbing your coat and scarf from the chair beside you. Mycroft smiles in satisfaction as he quickly instructs a car to be brought over, heart beginning to race and giddiness threatening to prevent him from acting rationally (though deep within him he knows that he'd stopped acting rationally around you eons ago). After a few minutes both of you are dressed to brave the cold, and together you step out into the crisp night air.


	5. A Fleeting Smile; Something to Remember Me By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that my updates have been so sporadic! Unfortunately, this is likely to continue; I've hit crunch time at uni and don't often have the time to sit and write for hours at a time. Hopefully this chapter is worth the (long) wait.

**September 10**

A grimace dashes Mycroft’s uncharacteristically good mood when his phone vibrates in the confines of his jacket pocket. Fishing it out, his eyebrows raise when he sees the text message lighting up the screen. He glances at you quickly. Your eyes are still busy staring out the window.

It’s been a long while since Sherlock has seen fit to watch over someone that isn’t John Watson; this alone speaks volumes about your character, Mycroft thinks to himself.

 _Be good to her.  
__SH_  

 _As opposed to being what, brother dear?  
__MH_  

 _Yourself, of course.  
__SH_  

Frowning, Mycroft’s eyes fix on your slim frame only inches away from him. There’s something absolutely serene in the way you smile lazily at dogs and their owners on the pavement as you’re whisked away. A spark glints about you for an instant. Mycroft swallows. Feeling begins to flicker in the fibres of his being, warming him to the core and simultaneously illuminating the shape of an aching hole in his chest. A breath sighs out of his mouth as the flicker turns into a smoulder stuck in his throat.

He loses himself for a few minutes, unsuccessfully trying to establish the exact shade of your (h/c) hair. Frustratingly, it seems to change colours whenever it’s touched by the light, patchy as the sparse street lamps on the quiet streets of London are by night. On further consideration, Mycroft grudgingly decides that this only adds to your beauty no matter the setting, and is therefore an acceptable result for his investigation. The smoulder in him flares approvingly.

Unaware of his steadfast gaze, your thoughts continue to whirl around your mind as you watch the world flit by in speed. Being in a car like this again brings up memories of Mycroft in an entirely different light, you muse. You’ve been whisked away in one of Mycroft’s cars before, of course, but the last time wasn’t anything like this.

**_April 15_ **

_The first time a sleek black car pulls up beside you, you’re treading wearily back towards your new flat from a late night rehearsal. So intent on the cup of tea you have every intention to make upon your return, you don’t even notice Anthea’s cough as she stands beside the stationary car. You start when you hear your name in the night, twisting around and almost dropping the music in your hands._

_Minutes later, you inexplicably find yourself standing face to face with an obscenely well-dressed stranger twirling an umbrella in a dilapidated warehouse. His hair is thinning but his suit extraordinarily well cut. He smiles, an expression that seems almost foreign to his face._

_“Have a seat, (F/n).” He folds his arms after gesturing with the umbrella at a solitary chair standing beside you._

_“I’d rather not,” you say, tersely. “Who the hell are you?”_

_He smiles vacantly again. “Whatever makes you comfortable.” He doesn’t answer your question._

_Silence fills the space as the man gazes at you piercingly, as if he’s trying to size up the very essence of your soul just by looking of you. Uncomfortable, you shift your weight while trying to maintain a semblance of confidence in the face of the man’s examination of you. The reassuring weight of your violin is the only thing that keeps you from bolting in the opposite direction from him._

_“Fascinating, isn’t it,” he comments suddenly. “A young violinist, attempting to re-assert herself in the solo world after a sojourn away from music, suddenly in the company of one Sherlock Holmes.”_

_You narrow your eyes. “How on earth do you know that? Who are you?”_

_That infuriating smile doesn’t touch his eyes and doesn’t budge. “An interested party.”_

_“Interested? In Sherlock?” You shake your head. “This is like something out of a James Bond movie. I’ll play along, just for you; you’re not getting anything out of me.”_

_A thoughtful expression appears on the man’s face. “You seem very loyal very quickly.”_

_“Well,” you begin sarcastically, sounding much more confident than you feel. “Abducting me from the sidewalk on my way home generally isn’t a very good way to start a conversation, let alone fish for information about my flatmate.”_

_The man laughs drily. “In future I could ‘abduct’ you from the bedroom of your flat instead, if that is a method you would prefer.”_

_A shiver runs down your spine when you hear the words ‘in future’. Suddenly you begin to feel distinctly out of your depth. Turning your head, you unsuccessfully search for the entrance you came through. Throat dry, you reluctantly look into the man’s amused eyes._

_He nods to himself as if he’s confirming something. “But I haven’t asked you here just to make polite conversation, (F/n). I have an offer that you might like to–”_

_“I decline,” you interrupt firmly._

_The man’s eyebrows rise. “You haven’t heard my terms yet.”_

_“I don’t need to.” You’re shaking ever so slightly now. The silence that meets your reply is unsettling. If you thought his gaze was piercing before, it’s nothing compared to the laser-like focus on you now._

_“Ten thousand pounds,” the man says abruptly. Your eyes squint fractionally in confusion. He continues more smoothly. “Ten thousand pounds as an upfront initial payment to ease your way, while you recalibrate yourself within the politics of London’s orchestras.”_

_You frown. “Why would you do that?”_

_He smiles faux pleasantly again. “Because talent deserves an outlet.”_

_“And in exchange for what, exactly?”_

_“Information. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. Nothing that you’d feel…uncomfortable with, I’m sure.”_

_You laugh out loud before stepping back, wanting to put as much distance as you can between you and the stranger._

_He catches your hand briefly before you can move away. You freeze._

_A shudder passes through you as a strange spark flies from him towards you. He leans in towards you as his voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t make the wrong choice, (F/n).” The implied warning is obvious in his tone. Casually, he tucks a business card into the pocket of your coat. Turning away, he twirls his umbrella again and walks away from you, eventually vanishing from sight through a small side door._

Your mind is still on events in the past when the car comes to a gentle halt. Jumping a little when Mycroft hand touches your shoulder, you blink as you turn and realise how close the two of you are.

“We’re here,” Mycroft says gently. Focussing your attention back on the real world, you see a quietly bustling Italian restaurant outside the window, dotted with couples laughing over their plates of food. He smiles and you can’t help smiling in return.

Both of you clamber out of the car. After passing some inaudible words to the driver, Mycroft turns to you. “Shall we?” He extends a hand out to you, hiding his nerves behind a winning smile. With a soft laugh and a second of consideration, you take his hand and follow his lead.

“Good evening, sir,” the waiter standing by the restaurant’s entrance speaks. “Do you and your companion have a reservation for tonight?”

Mycroft nods briefly. “Two for Holmes,” he says serenely. You shoot him a questioning look – how had he managed to make a booking in the space of a twenty minute car ride? And exactly how posh was this place? All he does is smile mysteriously in return.

Nodding in recognition, the waiter shows the two of you to your table. A wine that you’ve never heard of is ordered in a perfect Italian accent by Mycroft before the wine list is even offered to either of you, and before long you’re both sipping on a glass each.

“Myc, what on earth is this place?” you ask, watching him as he flicks through the menu.

He looks up at you from the pages, a twinkle in his eye. “Just a little somewhere that I’ve learnt to appreciate over the years. I thoroughly recommend their _pollo e funghi tagliatelle_ ,” he says warmly, “It’s divine, to say the least.”

Turning your head around discreetly to observe the others in the restaurant, you laugh quietly and make a face at him. “You take me to a place as fancy as this when I’m wearing _jeans,_ of all things?”

Ruefully, Mycroft shakes his head. He might as well go all out if he’s here, he thinks with an internal sigh, before leaning forward conspiratorially towards you and whispering, “At least two men, one of which is here with another woman, I might add, have already demonstrated ample interest in you within fifteen minutes of entering the building.” He shrugs and draws back. “You look good, (F/n). Jeans are quite honestly the least of your problems.”

Your face warms and your cheeks blush at Mycroft’s frankness as you smile in response. A tingle runs through you as he smiles at you with a laugh. Energy buzzes between the two of you in everything you say, both out loud and silently. Ducking your head down, you consider your menus in relative quiet for a few moments. “I think I’ll have the _fettucine boscaiola_ ,” you decide.

Nodding, Mycroft signals for the waiter and orders, again in flawless Italian. You tilt your head and look at him with a quizzical expression on your face. “How many languages do you speak, Myc?” you ask, taking another sip of wine.

“Fluently?” He can’t help but smile when you call him _Myc_ ; he’s absolutely sure that Sherlock has called him the same thing in the past to his great annoyance, but with you, he continue falling even further for you than he already has. “Currently nine, but latently probably about sixteen, last I checked.”

It’s not as if you were expecting a normal answer, but even so your face is visibly shocked. Mycroft is impassive; the past has taught him to steel himself for anything between ridicule, blatant disbelief and extreme attempts at overcompensation in response to his intelligence. He hopes and frankly expects that you won’t behave in that way, but experience has cautioned him against thinking otherwise.

“That’s amazing,” you say quietly when you manage to find your voice, shaking your head. “Absolutely amazing.” The invisible connection between the two of you strengthens as the brief worry on Mycroft’s face turns into an almost shy pride.

“You always take me by surprise, (F/n),” Mycroft admits. “That’s not what people usually say.” The food arrives almost unnoticed as the two of you watch each other softly.

You sigh before beginning to spiral your pasta on your fork. Your eyes widen and you quickly find Mycroft’s eyes after you start to chew; the food is exquisite to say the absolute least. A knowing smile appears on his face in response.

“Both you and Sherlock never seem to understand how talented you are,” you muse after swallowing your first bite of heavenly pasta. Pink shades dust Mycroft’s cheeks as he spoons more _tortellini_ into his mouth to save himself from having to answer.

The conversation carries on and the wine continues to flow. You watch as the lines on Mycroft’s face shift and almost disappear as he guffaws and laughs, warmth building in you. His blue eyes appear lighter, freer than you’ve ever seen them in the past. Your stomach swoops when he catches you gazing at him once, cocking his head to one side and sending a dazzling smile in return. Both of you have edged forward closer together, leaning in to talk and touching your feet together. The latter causes the energy between you to spark stronger, pulling you closer.

Dessert comes and goes, and Mycroft discreetly takes care of the bill while you make a trip to the bathroom upon finishing the food and wine. The waiter gives you a fleeting smile when you return to the table as he passes Mycroft his card back before taking his leave. You roll your eyes at Mycroft and gesture questioningly at the waiter’s retreating figure. “I’m an old fashioned man,” he comments with a shrug.

Unsurprisingly, he insists on driving you back to Baker Street upon leaving the restaurant. “It’s late,” he says firmly. “And it’s no trouble at all.”

Your protests go unheard, and exasperated, you eventually climb into the back of the car with him. Secretly though, you’re grateful to be able to spend more time together. There’s a simple comfort between you now that didn’t exist before the other night, though sometimes moments persist where something more hangs in the air. It almost feels as if the air in the car is charged with some kind of electricity as you watch the streets roll on towards home.

The curtains are closed upstairs in 221B when the car arrives on your doorstep. Shutting the car door behind you, a few strides take you to the step on your front door. Mycroft gingerly follows you and stands tall as he faces you, glancing upwards as if to check if Sherlock was home. You smile shyly as you nod your head towards the door. “Thanks for tonight, Myc. And for the beautiful flowers too,” you say quietly, looking into his still blue eyes. Tonight they’re pools, reflecting your image like water. “I had a lovely time.”

“You’re very welcome, (F/n).” Mycroft can’t pretend that his heart doesn’t swell when he hears your words. His brain is whirring at many miles an hour, and still he can’t process the feeling of elation he has and the butterflies in his stomach. There are only inches between the two of you, and his eyes are momentarily distracted by your slightly parted lips. _Act_ , his mind screeches at him. _Act, before it’s too late!_

Pushing aside his thoughts, the street is quiet as Mycroft hesitantly leans forward and softly presses his lips on yours. Suddenly he’s flying, lost over the seas of sensation as his lips become more determined, hungry for you. Nothing is in focus except your warmth, nothing is important except you. He sighs. His hands slowly find your waist and gently pull you closer to him as he loses himself in the feeling of you. This feeling…this feeling was never something he had anticipated experiencing in his lifetime. His lips part in response to you, _wanting_ you, his right hand moving to caress your face.

Your heart abruptly skips a beat when his lips find yours with such tenderness. It’s lucky his arms are around you, because you half suspect that you’d dissolve into a puddle of warmth if you didn’t have him to hold you firm. Mycroft kisses with depth and fire, much like the man himself, though his lips are surprisingly soft and sweet. Somewhere in your mind it registers that his lips still taste faintly of the wine you’d shared.

The moment seems to stretch for an age, heat building between the both of you, desire broiling in your chest. You find yourself pulling him closer, a fierce want seizing you as your hands grip Mycroft tightly.

But eventually you draw back, though both of you remain encircled by each other’s arms. Mycroft’s heart constricts in his throat as he blindly recognises the loss of your warmth. His pupils are blown wide, his heartbeat a flurry and his lips still parted. Both of you are breathless. You’re staring at him, your expression unreadable.

“I can’t, Myc,” you whisper.

His face shifts between the fervour of raw passion to a mask of rationality, pain burning in his eyes matched with his mouth becoming a straight line across his features. There is nothing in his mind, nothing except you and the sharp sting of rejection. For the first time Mycroft can remember in recent years, he is totally lost for words. His heart plummets to the ground and he struggles with all his might to maintain the cool collection he’s famed for. You watch as Mycroft reassembles his armour once again from head to toe, realising with a pang that he’s trying to protect himself from you.

“(F/n),” he murmurs, his fingers making circles that shouldn’t be comforting on your back. His lips return to yours slowly, tenderly, seeking to make you _understand_. Has he not made it clear that he cares for you? The taste of your lips was addicting, a rush that shot straight through him. How could he ever let this go when it was clear you wanted this too?

At first you can’t help but respond, a silent groan falling from your mouth. You can feel Mycroft smiling against you in response as he kisses you all the more sweetly. Dizziness from the sensation isn’t far away, you sense. 

This time, it’s Mycroft who breaks away first. There’s a crestfallen look of desolation on his face seeping through his defences; he can’t help it. He tucks a stray lock of your (h/c) hair behind your ear as your breath mingles with his in the cold London air.

“Why?” It takes everything from Mycroft’s being to summon the bravery to ask the single question. His eyes burn as they connect with yours when they open, their intensity profound.

You shift your weight uncomfortably, but don’t move from your mutual embrace. There’s a moment of silence as you try to compose an answer to the deceptively simple question that’s been posed to you. You sigh. “I’m not ready for something like this, Myc, not yet. Not after Sebastian,” you say quietly, meeting his eyes. His fingers tighten momentarily around you and his mask breaks for a second when he hears Sebastian’s name. “And there’s work, and Greg…and you deserve better, Mycroft. You–“

Growling, Mycroft interrupts your sentence with a rough kiss. His mouth crashes down to yours, swallowing your words and demanding that you listen to his truth, the truth that he knows you’re denying. For a moment you see red and your breath escapes your lungs in a sharp huff as you’re overwhelmed by the desperation in Mycroft’s unspoken words and the depth of his feelings.

When he releases your lips, he focuses his gaze on you carefully. “I understand,” he says slowly, deliberately. “But I won’t give up.” An unreadable expression returns to your face as you nod miserably. Mycroft mechanically disentangles himself from you and steps backwards, all the while keeping hold of your hand. Anguish is clear on his face while he pleads with you. “Don’t make the wrong choice, (F/n). Please.”

A feather light kiss brushes your knuckles from his lips before he turns away towards his car. He steps away and climbs in without a second glance, the car disappearing into the blackness of the night, leaving you to stare hollowly at the empty car spot beside the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that Greg will make a much more substantial appearance in the next chapter!


	6. Roses Are Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said at the end of the last chapter that there'd be more of Greg in this chapter, but unfortunately things didn't work out as planned! I can DEFINITELY promise that he'll be very heavily featured in the next instalment, though. Hope you enjoy reading this one; sorry for the long delay!

**September 20**

Mycroft attacks his work with a ferocity more commonly observed in predatory animals than humans over the following days. Several members of his staff are hired and almost immediately fired for incompetence as they fail to keep up with his newfound break neck pace. Countries bow to his will with nothing more than a few sharp words, trade deals are signed with honeyed speeches and promises. Though his tone is never less than politely pleasant, his opponents always note that the ice in his eyes remains ever present.

Despite it all, Mycroft can't even begin to pretend that the ache in his chest ever leaves.

When Rome calls, he attends in person. Within hours, Mycroft finds himself personally chastising a number of very specific and high ranking underground British diplomats. His single night in the city after delivering his scathing criticisms is spent staring distantly at his pasta and wine at a table for one, and despite his best attempts, the couple at the table beside him proves fiendishly difficult to ignore. Perhaps he's imagining it, but he swears even now that the nearby woman wears the same shade of lipstick as you do.

There's no respite from your invasion of his thoughts when he returns to Britain, weary to the core. Solitude has never bothered him in the past, but its dull edge now begins to thud inside him more than he can bring himself to admit. The ghost of your breath in his mouth flits around the edges of his mind at all hours of the day, and he finds himself idly wondering to himself what you're doing every time his mind relaxes away from his work.

Sleep is restless and lonely; in this, he is a lonely god wandering in the swirling realm of dreams. A groan chimes every time he wakes, dreaming of you turning away out his of reach.

Everything in him yearns for you, indifferent to his acknowledgement or denial of the fact. There are days where he swears that he sees you out of the corner of his eye on the way to work, before it inevitably and disappointingly turns out to be another woman with a vaguely similar hair colour or height. They're merely pale impressions of you, Mycroft reflects distantly each time, warding away the disappointment that radiates slowly each time through his bones.

Today, he stares at nothing and everything, absentmindedly twirling a pen in his fingers. Time stretches slowly while he idles at the Diogenes. Spare moments emerge infrequently for a man as busy as Mycroft, and for once he’s at a loss as to how he should spend it.

The thought to check on you momentarily crosses his mind. An instant later, a long-suffering sigh accompanies the memory of Sherlock's judicious use of several power tools last week in the process of ‘gently’ removing Baker Street's surveillance cameras.

A scowl lines his face further. Dependency is not a feeling Mycroft is used to, nor enjoys.

 _Must I remind you again that the cameras we agreed upon are in Baker Street purely for your protection?  
_ _MH_

He sends the text while distinctly _not_ thinking of you or whether you're currently at Baker Street. Sherlock's reply is immediate, the notification bell slicing through the air.

 _And I suppose any other glimpses you may catch along the way are simply an added bonus?  
_ _SH_

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft considers tossing the phone to the other end of his desk before thinking better of it. It vibrates again soon after.

 _She's not here, in answer to the question you’re really asking. For the sake of us all, speak to her yourself if you're so desperate.  
_ _SH_

His brother's short words for once cause him to pause. There is an element of truth there, Mycroft muses in stark silence. Basic logic precludes him from sitting in sorrow when he knows that you responded in some way at least to his affections; your pulse, the tightness in your fingers on his waist, quiet groans slipping from your lips.

A gleam glints in his eyes as he straightens his suit. Luxuriously, he leans back into his chair and steeples his fingers beneath his chin, poised for consideration. The long game has been a speciality of Mycroft Holmes for many years; his mouth curves upwards into a smile as his thoughts hurtle forward towards a plan.

He’ll bring you back to him; he must, or he’ll lose himself in the process.

* * *

**September 23**

Lying in the warmth of your bed, you groan as your eyes open blearily. The world is grey outside your window, rain falling gently on damp earth. For a moment you revel in the feeling of soft sheets on your skin before sighing and resolving to sit up, shivering at the sudden loss of heat.

Yawning, your eyes unwittingly settle on the flowers that are still brightening up your bedside table, days after they were first placed there. Something in your stomach tightens. The feeling of Mycroft's lips on your own ghosts gently over your lips, unease prickling at the back of your head. Unsuccessfully trying to ignore the sensation and memories, you pull yourself out of bed with a huff and march to your bathroom, stopping to turn on the morning radio on the way.

The familiar rhythms of your early mornings are dependable, comforting. A scalding hot shower, a quick swirl of your teeth with a toothbrush and minutes spent in contemplation before choosing your outfit for the day, all before your first cup of tea. Moments are impulsively spent on perfecting your eyeliner wings, before you nod in satisfaction at your reflection.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, you curse under your breath. Resigning yourself to being late and consequently having to tackle the Tube at peak hour, you hurriedly throw your keys and scores into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. All seems quiet in 221B as you walk out the door and into the crisp morning air of London; a novelty, but one you're not unappreciative of.

Most of your walk to the station is spent in thought, musings spinning aimlessly in circles. You can't help but glance at your phone frequently. Though you're unwilling to admit it, there's a small cluster of hope deep within you which lately has manifested in the marked abuse of your phone's power button. As it has for days, your mind continues to slide from today's dress rehearsal and towards the murky territories of Mycroft, Greg and Sebastian.

The Tube is bustling as London wakes to morning. Bodies jostle both you and your violin case as you squeeze through slivers of space between people on the platform. Throwing your body forward, you swallow in your throat as the train's door closes a fraction of a second after you make it in the carriage.

Exhaling, your heart takes the remainder of the train ride to return to its usual tempo. It doesn't take half as long for your mind to turn towards Mycroft, though. You sigh. With the amount of time he spends lodged in your thoughts, you'd swear that you were sixteen again. It was just last night that you unconsciously found yourself pulled towards the direction of his home while you were out running, pounding away the swirling cloud of worry that’s permeating your mind. A series of threads seem to tug you inexorably towards the man; sometimes you wonder if you'll be swallowed whole by the intensity of his aura, if gravity will bring you to him instead of the ground.

Quashing your pondering over the enigma of Mycroft Holmes has proven difficult. Try as you might, you can't erase the burning heat in his eyes from that night. Nor can you forget the crushing disappointment etched deep on his face, just for an instant before the armour you'd meticulously peeled from him during the night re-emerged.

But you know the Holmes brothers better than they think. And truth be told, it makes you uneasy.

The way Sherlock bursts and flies between moods, only to discard the people close to him and retreat into himself isn't characteristic of him alone. Neither is the seemingly instinctual habit to bury oneself into both work and substances of varying legality when real life becomes emotionally strenuous. And you yourself have seen firsthand the chilling blankness in Mycroft’s smile as he seizes your very essence and performs silent calculations as a stranger.

Of the two Holmes men, you know without a doubt which is the more lethal. And of course, he’s the one caressing your lips with his own, crooning an inexplicable song silently with nothing more than a smile and a tight grip of his fingers on your waist.

Closing your eyes and shaking your head, you try to clear your mind as you emerge from the depths of the Underground, squinting at the sudden brightness. The air bites with cold, and you shiver. London’s bustle quickly sweeps you forward towards the Barbican, ready or not for the day ahead.

* * *

Behind the wheel, Mycroft can’t help but tut as the traffic light falls back to red just as he reaches the solid white line. The dip of his chin towards his wrist to check the time is unconscious; calculations of timing and degrees of punctuality whirl in his mind. Leaning back into the leather seat, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to a Shostakovich waltz and stares out of the window.

He’s raring to go as soon as the light switches green. The Audi purrs as it speeds forward without a backward glance from its driver. Consuming miles at a pace that almost matches the mind of its owner, the car races ahead leisurely with little regard for the lesser machines on the road similarly battling London’s evening traffic.

Minutes later, Mycroft effortlessly climbs out of the driver’s seat. He straightens his jacket crisply as he stands. In his hand is a single rose, carefully clutched to avoid damage.

Sauntering to the stage door, Mycroft’s strides betray nothing of his nervousness; supreme confidence evident in his every step, his Italian shoes fall like hammer blows to the ground. A racing heart and a pair of slightly slick palms are hidden neatly behind the power he is more than used to channelling. No more will Mycroft stare distantly and consider the implications of the past; the time for action has arrived. The glass door slides open with a gentle push, and he smiles obligingly to the man at the desk beside the green room entrance as he approaches him.

“Good evening,” Mycroft says smoothly. “Is (F/n) (L/n) still upstairs?”

The man looks up questioningly at the tall figure before him. “Yes she is – who are you, exactly?” He peers curiously at the rose in the well-dressed man’s hand.

“Oh yes of course, my apologies – Mycroft Holmes, (F/n)’s boyfriend,” he says with sincere eyes. “I was planning a bit of a surprise for her, if it’s possible for me to enter upstairs?” 

* * *

The burst of noise as the orchestra behind you breaks into applause and shouts is a welcome surprise, as your final rehearsal with them comes to an end. Shaking the conductor’s hand profusely and thanking the concertmaster repeatedly for her work, your face is flushed and grinning. Everything is vivid and full; you’ve finally managed to coax the right expressions from your playing, evoking the images you’ve been experimenting on for months with Sherlock. And just in the nick of time too, everyone notes with relief, with the concert coming up in a matter of days.

Energy abounds in you from the post-performance high; in a state of heightened feeling, your laugh comes loud and often with your colleagues as you amble off the stage and towards your dressing room. For a second your eyes narrow when you see a figure in the corner of the green room that looks suspiciously familiar. The thought is forgotten nearly immediately though, as the principal cellist taps you on the back and greets you with a warm handshake.

When you pass through the door of your dressing room, you breathe a sigh of relief. Sitting your violin in its case, you quickly pull together a cup of tea. The warm mug steams the air in front of you as you settle on to the couch. Soft cushions feel luxurious on your skin after a long day of rehearsing. Leaning into them, the smell of fresh tea in the air lulls you into the quiet. It’s hard to recall a time when you’ve been more grateful for a moment to yourself, you think.

Barely three minutes pass before a knock comes to the door. Rolling your eyes, you clamber up and mumble a vague “I’m coming!”, still nursing your tea. A yawn escapes while you twist the door open.

* * *

Of all the things you’re expecting when you pull the door open, Mycroft is really last on the list.

The scent of his cologne is the first thing you recognise; faint yet present, you inhale his smell unconsciously. Next is his suit; navy today, with bespoke Italian leather shoes. Cut to perfection, Mycroft looks for a moment like he'd fit right in beside Daniel Craig’s James Bond. And his face, quietly relaxed in the moment before his eyes meet yours before his eyes brighten and lips curve upwards when he sees you.

It's a glorious sight, all in all. You can't help but grin as you lean against the door and take the sight of him in, absent as he's been in the last few days.

A sharp intake of breath is all Mycroft can manage when he catches sight of you. He’d anticipated his body responding to you upon meeting again, but he’d failed to account for how his heart now thunders, how his mind goes blank. The rush of warmth that clings to him makes him shiver, and the grin that adorns your face is enough to nearly tip him over the edge.

Closing the distance between the two of you, Mycroft proffers the rose to you. “I just managed to catch the end of the dress rehearsal, though I wanted to get here earlier,” he admits. “Unfortunately, London’s traffic had other palns.”

For a second, you're sorely tempted to play his game. The electric feeling in you wills you to submit to his charm and chase, and you even take a half step towards him to close the space between your bodies even further.

Accepting the rose, you sigh. The earnest look in Mycroft’s eyes nearly hooks you in before you look away and turn back towards the dressing room. You motion for him to enter.

Crossing the room to your violin case, you set the rose on the table beside your instrument. Delicately, you pick up the violin and begin to wipe it gently as you pack away. When you turn back around, you catch Mycroft examining your music with a curious expression.

“Hello to you too,” you say, rolling your eyes. A mildly guilty expression crosses his face as he steps away from your music and makes himself comfortable on the couch. You sigh, longer this time. This really wasn't something you’d expected to deal with today.

“I told you Myc,” you hesitate. “This can't happen right now.”

Mycroft is sure that he's not imagining the distinctly unhappy tone in your voice. There's an unconscious twinge in his gut as he tries to relax back into the sofa. Trickling in his mind is a small puddle of anxiety; he wonders to himself if this is really the best thing to be doing.

“I’m a patient man, (F/n),” Mycroft says gently, assured that no hint of any nervousness is showing outwardly. “And flowers can come from friends too...am I not even considered to be that now?”

The determined look in Mycroft’s eyes doesn't fool you. Behind it is insecurity that’s plain as day in the set of his shoulders, his fingers clutching his knee tighter than usual. “Of course you are,” you reply reproachfully. “You know that. What…happened doesn't change that.”

Relief radiates from Mycroft as he visibly relaxes. You wonder if he realises how open he's being; it's a marked change from the norm, but it's not an unwelcome one.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he remarks more cheerfully. “In which case; dinner tonight?”

Lips tightening, Mycroft notices before you do that you hesitate. In the moment, he's playing a dangerous game with himself; he's laid himself bare for you, handed you the key to himself and allowed you to do what you will. Vulnerability is not his forte. He knows you’ll in all likeliness be a gentle guardian, but for a second it's all he can do not to recede into the swirling void of fear and hurt.

Regret colours your voice and awkwardness tinged it as you speak. “I’d love to, Myc, but I’m supposed to be going out with Greg tonight.”

Before Mycroft’s entire internal system is razed to the ground, he inhales and swallows. “Then let me drive you home instead. You’ll be late on my account, otherwise, if you’re going out for dinner.” He speaks smoothly and politely, taking great care not to falter over the words. What he says is barely audible to him over the thumping of his heart.

You raise your eyebrows. Such easy acquiescence isn’t what you’d anticipated. “It’s no trouble at all,” you say. “I’m more than capable of getting the Tube home-”

Mycroft shakes his head as he interrupts you. “I insist, (F/n). I wouldn't want to cause any inconvenience.”

Frowning, you tilt your head as he looks at you pleadingly. Clicking the locks on your case together, a weary sigh leaves you at his insistence as you nod in agreement.

A small smile touches Mycroft’s face. At least you're not completely unwilling, he reasons internally. This is something to work with; far better than nothing at all.

The two of you walk out of the dressing room together after a final sweeping glance on Mycroft’s behalf. Along the way, he smiles consideringly at the man at the desk beside the stage door as he follows you outside the Barbican.

“So; how was the rest of your rehearsal?” Mycroft asks as you both wait for the carpark elevator to descend. “The snippet I caught at the end was wonderful, if I may say so.”

Both Mycroft’s praise and the recollection of the enormous warmth and chilling precision with which the orchestra had accompanied you makes you grin unconsciously. “Fantastic,” you say, enthusiastic. “Matthew’s been very thorough with the orchestra; I’m really looking forward to the concert. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

It's as if every smile of yours brings warmth to Mycroft. While it's quickly becoming less unexpected, it still catches him off guard every so often; it leaves him almost flushed to see such joy incited by something he asked.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replies as they step out of the lift. “What else is on the program, apart from the Sibelius?”

“Shostakovich 5 and the Karelia Suite. Crowd pleasers, the lot of them,” you comment while attempting to keep up with Mycroft’s long paces.

Chuckling, Mycroft gestures at a silver Audi in front of him as he comes to a halt. “All wonderful pieces. I'm particularly fond of the Shostakovich,” he remarks. “And this is our ride.”

The car unlocks with a press of a button, and Mycroft climbs in. After a moment of hesitation, you follow suit into the passenger seat. Humming, he starts the car and fiddles with the stereo.

You twist around to drink in the sight of his car, meticulously neat just like his home. Awe is evident on your face as you touch the leather of the seats and consider the central console and speakers. Mycroft looks on in amusement as your mouth gapes open.

When Shostakovich’s F# minor suite comes on a moment later, you chuckle. “You've got good taste,” approval in your voice.

He turns to smile at you as he starts the car. You shiver, his eyes seeming to shine a little brighter. Coughing, you turn to look out the window to escape his gaze. Quiet reigns for a few moments, accompanied by the music softly echoing from the stereo.

“And how was work for you today, Myc?” you ask, glancing back towards him. “Though you probably won't be able to say much, what with all the secret government spy stuff, I suppose.”

Tilting his head consideringly, Mycroft wonders how to best answer your question. Four new leads had emerged in the cross-country search for one Colonel Moran, a rogue marksman gone wild. Managing the hung parliament has been an utter mess, with many sleepless nights being spent shouting and groaning in frustration at the ineptitude of a variety of politicians. Not only that, but maintaining a grasp on any part of the single market in Brussels is becoming steadily more difficult by the day with all the posturing from Westminster since the election. God forbid that the Cabinet ever comprehends the magnitude of what Mycroft bears everyday to keep negotiations alive, what with Britain’s apparent lack of any diplomatic tact.

“No worse than normal,” he decides drily. “The election’s been a little mad, but it’s nothing a few sleepless nights can’t repair.”

Narrowing your eyes, your gaze searches for Mycroft’s. “Sleepless nights?” you enquire probingly. “How much rest did you get last night?”

Mycroft keeps his eyes very deliberately fixed on the road in front of him while he shrugs nonchalantly. “About an hour, I think?”

When he turns to look at you, he's not prepared for the appalled expression that he's greeted with. Your eyebrows are raised remarkably high, mouth folded in disbelief. Finding your voice, you struggle to find the right words. “And how often do you sleep that little in a night?”

A pained look crosses Mycroft’s face. “(F/n), it's fine; there's nothing to be concerned about -”

“How often, Mycroft?” The tone in your voice brokers no arguments.

Sighing, he gives in when you revert to using his full name. “Well it's only really been the last week or so,” he begins.

There's no helping the groan that falls from your mouth automatically. “First Sherlock, now you; am I going to have to text you every night to remind you that your body needs sleep to function properly?” You throw your hands up in front of you as you shake your head. “Should you even be driving?!”

Thankfully Baker Street is only metres away and Mycroft brings the car to a halt. He turns to consider you fully. Pulling the keys from the Audi’s ignition, he dangles them between the two of you before stowing them into his pocket. “Good thing I'm not driving anymore, then,” he smiles.

You roll your eyes before climbing out of the car. Standing on the step in front of the house, Mycroft saunters over to meet you. Bodies close, you shiver again. Memories from last week begin to seem closer to reality than recollection. The feeling of Mycroft’s lips on yours brushes your mind briefly.

“Thanks again for the ride,” you say, quietly. “It was very nice of you to offer.”

He chuckles. “It’s no trouble,” he answers. Energy rolls between the two of you. It threatens to pull Mycroft in, intoxicating him. Swallowing, he smiles tightly as he lets himself be reeled in to your orbit. “You feel it too, don't you?”

Looking down, you break eye contact with him. The pain hidden under layers of charm and politeness makes it difficult for you to hold his gaze. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Your voice is soft, deflecting the question.

Exhaling, a sigh leaves Mycroft’s mouth. “Only for you,” he says unhappily. Throwing caution to the wind, he gently pulls you into his arms.

For a few seconds you allow yourself to be comforted by his warmth and the strength in his arms. Eventually, difficult as it is, you prise yourself out of his grasp and fumble for your keys. As you make to turn for the door, Mycroft pulls you to him again, closer this time.

Eyes sparkling, he leaves a gentle kiss in the corner of your mouth. “Oops,” he says nonchalantly. “Missed your cheek, it seems.” Not saying another word, he turns around and climbs back into the Audi with a wave.

You shake your head as you enter the building, twisting around just in time to catch the car disappearing into the distance. The man’s persistence is unbelievable, you think, as the ghost of his lips on yours lingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much action in this chapter - apologies! I'm getting geared up for some drama in the next one, though. As usual, kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated <3


	7. The Seventh Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally managed to update this fic ! As always, apologies for the stupidly long wait... Hope you guys enjoy seeing a bit more of Greg in this chapter. Let me know in the comments how you feel at the end of the chapter!
> 
> A few quick things:  
> \- Timing wise, everything that has happened in this and the last 6 chapters of the fic has occurred in September. The first time Mycroft and (F/n) met was April 15.  
> \- Also, I'm going to start putting a bit of a time indication at the start of every chapter just so there's a better sense of how time is moving in the fic. This definitely helps me make more sense of it all, and I hope it'll help you guys too.  
> \- I've also added chapter names for all the fic's chapters, just so you guys are aware!  
> \- I'm hoping to have another update done for the end of July. Thanks again for all your patience with my bad timing and writer's block!

**September 23**

The doorbell rings and you curse, just finishing off your eyeliner. “Just a sec,” you shout breathlessly, shuffling things around in your room. For a second you pause; was that the creak of Sherlock’s door opening? After a moment, you dismiss the thought. He’s never home this early if he’s gone out to a crime scene, you think, adding another jacket to the growing pile hiding in your closet.

Sherlock is quiet as he comes down the stairs in his dressing gown, muttering under his breath about the precipitation levels of his latest experiment. Without more than a sideward glance at 221C, he gingerly pulls the front door open.

The sight that greets him makes him blink. Twice. “Graham?”

His shoes. Sherlock can’t help but stare at Greg’s shoes; date shoes, to be specific. Size 10, leather, well-worn, recently polished and maintained carefully for a number of years. Date shoes. And then the scent of the almost-expensive cologne that clings to him despite being priced slightly over his salary grade, paired with silver hair that’s been smoothed over and tamed. To top it off, his typically crumpled shirt has been exchanged for a pressed linen one, crisp under his jacket. His eyes narrow, testing. “Why are you here?”

Greg shrugs with a smile. “I do have a life, you know, surprising as that may be. Are you going to let me in at some point?”

Abruptly turning his back to Greg, Sherlock flounces up the stairs in a huff. Frowning, Greg enters the building hesitantly and peers towards 221C.

The door to your flat bursts open as you tug your leather jacket on, not noticing Greg in the hallway. He grins when your eyes meet his seconds later and your face beams, warm and bright.

“Hey, (F/n),” Greg says softly, voice slightly husky. The sight of you sets goosebumps off in his system. He swallows.

A returning smile grows on your face. “You look good,” you say as he pulls you in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Nice shoes!”

Chuckling, Greg shakes his head. “Sherlock took one look at them and turned his tail,” he says, rueful. “Don't think he appreciated them quite as much.”

You shake your head. It's unlikely that Sherlock will ever learn to use good manners in a context outside of squeezing information from suspects, but you continue to hope it’ll happen. Someday, perhaps, far in the future. “I spend half my life ignoring the looks on his face,” you laugh. “Ready to go?”

With a nod, Greg reopens the main door. The brisk London air is fresh on your face, whipping your hair in the breeze. Thankfully the rain holds off, sparing your eyeliner in the process as the two of you walk towards his car.

There’s a feeling of ease in the air that’s remarkably refreshing as Greg charms you with his wit and humour. Conversation flies from terrible puns to aspirations for the future with a flow that runs far deeper than the passing interactions you’ve had with him in the past. You find yourself blushing as Greg compliments you with a cheeky grin, raising your eyebrows with a laugh when he shakes his head disparagingly in response to your affectionate attention to his silver hair.

And the food itself is exciting; Greg surprises you with his knowledge of all the different types of sushi that glide past you slowly on the train. He delights in pointing out the most obscure dishes he can spot and seeing if you can guess what’s in them. In turn, you smile when your fingers rest on his for a second while picking up another plate.

Both of you are laughing heartily when Greg lifts his eyes to meet yours, warm and tender. “Knew this’d be a good idea,” he says jokingly, sipping at his jasmine tea. “Anyone who can put up with Sherlock, let alone live with him, is bound to be great company.”

You laugh. “Are you saying you’d take John out on a date too, then? Or Mrs Hudson, god forbid?”

“Well now,” Greg pretends to think. “They’re not nearly as gracious when it comes to my jokes, and they don’t look half as good as you do. Not really a fair competition, is it then?”

It doesn’t take more than that to set you both off on the giggles again, much to the disapproval of the elderly couple sitting beside Greg. You’d missed this, you think to yourself. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed so much and so freely with someone. Everything is easy. With no dramatic flair and subtle half-hidden messages to think about, you find yourself feeling content with the man next to you. As if on cue, Greg’s thigh brushes against yours as your chairs come closer.

Without warning, Mycroft’s face flashes in your mind for a second. You frown, before Greg points out another strange looking plate of sushi for you to comment on. Craning your neck to get a better look at it, the thought of Mycroft slips from your mind as Greg touches your arm gently as he laughs again.

It’s not long before Greg asks and pays for the bill before you can even register that he’s done so, shrugging and smiling when you protest. “My treat,” Greg says, tucking his wallet away. “You can get the next one, promise.”

Shaking your head, you roll your eyes with amusement. “Men and their chivalry, I swear to god,” you mutter under your breath as you walk out of the restaurant.

Greg chuckles. “Me, chivalrous?” he says, feigning horror as he unlocks his car. “Never. In fact, just to prove it, I won’t even offer you a drink at my place to finish the night off.”

Turning your head to one side as if to consider his proposal, your eyes twinkle. “I suppose that’s your loss then,” you say, climbing into the car, “since I’m sure I would’ve accepted your kind offer.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well in that case,” Greg says with a laugh. “Next stop, the Lestrade manor.”

Greg’s home is of course not a manor, as it turns out, but is instead a new apartment nestled in the back streets of Battersea. Unlocking the door and flicking the light on, a cosy living room and kitchen is illuminated. There aren’t any photos on the mantle, but the newspapers scattered on the dining table and the clean laundry waiting to be sorted on the sofa give the place a warm, lived-in feeling. It’s a far cry from the precise neatness of Mycroft’s home, you think to yourself, but inviting in its own way.

You settle on the sofa, groaning at how comfortable it is as you sink into the soft cushions. Greg glances behind him as he rummages in the fridge and smiles when he catches sight of you. Finding a bottle of champagne and some glasses, he bumps you good naturedly as he sets the drinks down on the coffee table and settles in beside you. By no coincidence, you’re sure, your legs are touching closely as he pours and passes you a glass.

“To a great night,” he declares after he pours his own drink. Smiling, you clink your glass against his and sip at the champagne.

Quiet fills the air for a few moments while the two of you just enjoy being in each other’s company, drinking occasionally and feeling each other’s presence. Turning your head towards him, you can’t help but smile as you take in the sight of him. Warm, welcoming, kind; Greg Lestrade is a wonderful man.

A few seconds later, Greg breaks the silence. “See something you like?” he asks quietly with a lazy smile, shifting closer to you. The glass in his hand is set on the table, and you feel his hand rest on your thigh in its place.

“I think I do,” you whisper back gently, pulling in towards him.

Greg’s lips are slow and soft on yours. There’s no hurry at all in the way he presses himself to you, taking his time to explore your mouth. Any tension and trepidation you may have had leaves your body as he leisurely sucks on your bottom lip before pulling you closer to him.

It’s too easy to lose yourself in the sensation, too easy to set yourself adrift in Greg’s warmth and comfort. Your arms find themselves wrapping around his body, aching for him to be closer to you. There’s nothing but sweetness surrounding you, with Greg as your anchor. You groan.

Breaking the kiss gently, he opens his eyes. They’re dark, his pupils dilated. “Bedroom?” he breathes, touching your lips with his again lightly.

You hesitate. It’s been so long since you’d done anything like this, after...after Sebastian. And Mycroft. God, could you do this to Mycroft? Didn’t you think about and want him? What on earth are you doing? Uncertain, you swallow in your throat.

Greg must feel the tension that emerges in you, because he kisses you softly again. “There’s no pressure, (F/n). Whatever you want, whenever you want it.”

Sighing, you close your eyes. It pains you, but still you pull away from him slowly and shake your head. Meeting Greg’s eyes, you see only acceptance and understanding there and wonder again how someone as good as him exists. “I...I can’t, Greg. I’m still getting over someone,” you say quietly. “You’re extraordinary, and you deserve better than this. Much, much better.”

The man in question looks at you consideringly, thinking on your words, before he pulls you into his arms for a hug. Raising your eyebrows behind his head, you hesitate for a second before wrapping your arms around him in kind.

Greg draws back and smiles softly at you. “It’s alright, (F/n). Of course it’s alright,” he says, squeezing your hand comfortingly. “I wouldn’t have been so forward if I’d known.”

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur as you make to stand up. “I...I’d better go, then.”

He catches your hand as you step away from the couch. Frowning, you turn around. “It’s late,” Greg says, concern showing on his face. Motioning towards his bedroom, he stands to face you. “Stay at mine tonight and head home in the morning, if you want. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You’re too kind, Greg,” you say. “But I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“It’s dangerous out there,” Greg says with the beginnings of a grin touching his lips. “Trust me, I’d know. I’m a copper, remember?”

Shaking your head again, you can’t help but chuckle. “As you like it then, Detective Inspector,” you concede. A relieved smile crosses Greg’s face as he nods his head several times.

Greg’s room is dark when you eventually get into bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering what on earth you’re going to say when Sherlock deduces you in the morning upon your arrival at home. Thoughts of Mycroft and Sebastian swim around in your mind, drawing you into endless circles, swirling you into a haze. You sigh again, rubbing your face. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

Mycroft is alone in his office. He’d sent Anthea and the remainder of his staff home hours ago, unwilling for them to see his mood blacken as the night wore on. Though he could at times be an overly-demanding employer, he’s hardly a cruel one.

And so for once, there’s true silence in the building. No whispers or heated arguments between his staff, no photocopiers churning out hundreds of pages of reports for the eyes of he and Anthea and an utter lack of sighs of frustration at the incompetence of various government departments. Just Mycroft, staring expressionlessly at the open files at his desk.

By now, you’ll be sitting down for dinner with Greg, he supposes. His charm will be making you laugh, drawing you closer to him… and taking you away from Mycroft.

He clenches his fists and wills himself to stop thinking of you, or to stop thinking at all for that matter. Tonight his thoughts have been running wild and he’s been all but unable to stop them. His mind palace providing no respite, he’s instead taken to pacing the floor of his office in circles first and staring out the window second, hoping that the slight movements would somehow still his runaway mind. Both strategies are still failing to succeed.

Glancing at the top drawer of his desk, Mycroft grimaces. He shouldn’t. Tearing his eyes away and forcing them back to the report he’s reading, he steeples his fingers under his chin and bites his bottom lip. He _really_ ought not to.

Instead, he exhales and steals a look at the monitor on his table. How wrong would it be to check on how your night is going, he wonders, finally allowing the thought rebounding insidiously in his mind all night to see the light of day. Would it really be so awful to keep an eye on you? He would rather know than not, wouldn't he?

His resolve holds for only a few more moments before giving way to his curiosity. Old habits die hard, Mycroft muses as he closes his eyes for a second, preparing for the images to appear on the screen before him. He swallows. Why on earth is he doing this to himself?

In reality, they’re not much worse than what he’d come to expect. His mind has, after all, produced images that are far more difficult to stomach. But his heart still constricts a little when he sees how close you sit to Greg, the depth of your smiles and the crinkle in Greg’s eyes as he laughs at something you’ve said to him. Seeing it before his eyes is somehow even worse than imagining it.

Averting his eyes, Mycroft stands and stares out of the window at the empty street again. The only happiness he can find in this was that you yourself look happy, albeit as a result of Greg’s efforts and not his own. But that is of little consequence. If he can’t have you, at least you’re happy elsewhere, he thinks to himself quietly. He clings on to this small fact even as he begins to crumble just a fraction internally.

Taking a step back towards his desk, he opens the top drawer and withdraws an unopened packet of cigarettes, along with a lighter. Frowning, Mycroft’s hands quiver just once as he lights up. The urge to groan in pleasure almost overwhelms him as he takes a drag. Immediately he feels slightly more at ease with the world, despite the guilt gnawing at the back of his mind. The edge of panic disappears the more he inhales. With smoke on his breath, he feels better. Safer, even.

When he turns back to return the packet to his drawer, Mycroft can’t help but catch sight of the screen again. And though he knows that he physically sees you and Greg emerging from his car and entering his apartment, Greg’s eyes dilated and yours brighter than usual, he cannot register it internally.

He stares at the screen blankly, bleakly. He checks the time, and then checks it again. It’s 11:34pm.

His mind whirs at light speed, but everything is disjointed and fragmented.

 _(F/n) Greg fucking in apartment car his late night place (F/n) (F/n)_ **_(F/n)_ ** _not mine angry goodbye alone fucking Greg stop stop stop stop. She’s happy you’re happy yes no yes Mycroft but furious_ **_heartbroken_ ** _lonely lonely stop stop Mycroft stop. Stop._

Choking a little, he quickly inhales from his cigarette. His mind clears slightly. Just enough for him to think logically again.

You’ve chosen Greg over him; this is all the proof that Mycroft needs. He knows you. He knows that you don’t run after people lightly, that you make attachments slowly and don’t hurry in your interactions. And yet...and yet, you’ve chosen to follow Greg to his home after a dinner date. What other conclusion is there to be drawn from the data?

Now the questions remain; had you ever been interested in him? Were you only reacting physically to Mycroft physically the night that he kissed you, or even worse, were you just taking pity on him? Has he misread you this entire time?

He can’t help himself, this time. Mycroft snatches the packet of cigarettes from his drawer again and strides out of the building, leaving the lights on behind him. No regard is given to noise, grace or manners; what use are any of them to him now?

There is no-one, now, he thinks grimly to himself. No-one to call or confide in. You’ve taken that with you as well.

He's alone again. And that suits him just fine.

The silhouette of smoke rises under the beam of a street lamp, spiralling upwards seemingly forever. Cold is of no incidence to Mycroft as he lights another cigarette and breathes in deeply, revelling in the sensation. The back street is quiet, and slowly his mind begins to follow.

Another cigarette. Another flame to light it. And the pattern continues, minutes later.

The thoughts of you in Greg’s arms, in his bed, finally stop after the seventh smoke. Relieved, Mycroft exhales and searches his packet for another. Now that his mind is empty, devoid of emotion, all that’s left to do is continue.

He coughs on the next breath in. A frown forming on his face, he looks around briefly and takes in some fresh air, before touching the cigarette back to his lips. The next inhale is sweet again. It keeps him blissfully empty.

Reaching into his pockets, Mycroft’s fingers feel around for another in the packet but find nothing but air. His brows furrow. He pulls the packet out and finds that it's woefully empty. Cursing, he tries to savour the last of the cigarette in between his fingers, sucking in the feeling greedily.

The acrid smell of smoke clings to him when he finally lets the stub fall to the ground and crushes it under his foot. His mind remains glazed over and quiet as he arranges for a car to bring him home.

Instead of undressing and getting into bed when he arrives, Mycroft just sighs, exhausted. The warmth is welcoming after standing in the cold for what he later realised was hours. Throwing his jacket on the back of a chair and rolling up his shirt sleeves, he collapses on to his couch and stares outwards at the darkened room. _(F/n)_ , he can’t help but think as he drifts off to sleep.

_(F/n)._


	8. Duty Calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the fastest I've ever updated this fic! I've been spending a lot of time writing and planning these holidays, so hopefully I can update at least once or twice more before the end of July. 
> 
> On an unrelated note, I just thought I’d put it out there; at this stage it’s not looking like Mary will make an appearance in this fic (for the time being). The timing of this fic with respect to the show’s canon is a bit nebulous, even to me; I suppose it’s sort of occurring in a separate pocket of time somewhere between The Sign of Three and His Last Vow. Which is why John hasn’t been depicted as living at 221B, even though he appears there every now and again, and gives me a bit of leeway in having Mary appear or not for now.

**October 1**

The Barbican Centre  
The audience goes wild the second your bow arm rises away from your violin’s strings, the concerto over with a flourish and a beaming smile on your face. Feeling slightly dazed, everything has a dream-like quality as you bow deeply, and then bow again as the concert hall greets you with even more clapping. You’re sure that at some point you must’ve shaken the concertmaster’s hand as well as the conductor’s, but the rapturous applause is transfixing, captivating. So much so that it’s difficult to keep track of anything else that’s going on.

All faces are obscured by darkness in the crowd, but there’s an immense sense of accomplishment in your bones that warms you from the inside out. The feeling is intoxicating; the knowledge that you, together with those on stage beside you, had managed to make the world beautiful for just a few moments fills you with wonder.

There’s no pause or slowing in the audience’s enthusiasm as you exit the stage and are greeted by a myriad of smiling faces. Seconds later, you’re ushered back into the spotlight, encouragement to play an encore reverberating throughout your skull.

An encore. At the Barbican. You swear you must be dreaming as the crowd finally stills, watching you exhale softly before raising your violin up to your chin once more.

 _Bach_ , you think to yourself. Gently, you coax the beginnings of a _Largo_ from the strings, the melodies of centuries ago echoing throughout the hall. It’s too easy to lose yourself in the rise and fall of the notes, the swell and ebb releasing the emotions that’ve been clamouring within you during the past weeks. The violin and you croon as one, your body just as much of an instrument for the making of music as the violin is.

The final chord hangs in the air for what seems like a small eternity before you sigh with a smile, lowering the bow and violin. Once more, the audience’s fervour is overwhelming as you release a shaky breath, bowing low. A lump forms in your throat. It’s the highest honour in the world, you think to yourself, to bare your soul to fellow people, and to have your deepest fears and greatest joys embraced and understood without uttering a word.

* * *

You’re still riding the post-performance high when you emerge from your dressing room and wander quietly into the back of the foyer. Searching the crowd, a grin forms on your face when you spot John first, and then your flatmate, wading through the wall of people towards you.

“Thanks so much for coming, John,” you say with a smile as soon as John is within hearing distance. “I know it’s not really your-”

“You were bloody fantastic, (F/n),” John says with a wondering shake of his head. He pulls you in for an embrace, chuckling. “I’m no expert, but I loved it. Absolutely loved it.”

Sherlock shrugs when you round upon him. “I suppose you were alright,” he drawls, a twinkle in his eye.

Rolling your eyes, you playfully slap him on the shoulder. “Shut it, you,” you laugh, knowing what he’s saying without resorting to words.

“One day, he’ll say a kind word at an occasion other than on my wedding day,” John grumbles, exasperated. “Can I get you a drink in the meantime, (F/n)?”

You laugh before nodding; a stiff drink is exactly what you need right now. Both you and Sherlock watch as John battles the crowd for access to the bar.

“Gavin sends his apologies,” Sherlock announces, eyes still on John’s rapidly disappearing figure. “He was all suited up for the occasion, but somebody rang in with a body. You know how it is.” You nod, understanding. Thankfully, your friendship with Greg hadn’t suffered from your half rejection of him the other night. You were pleasantly surprised when he texted you a few days later, asking for the details of your concert, and grateful for his quiet understanding.

Clearing your throat, you turn your gaze back to his nearly impassive face again. You hesitate. “And Mycroft?” you ask, lowering your voice.

Sherlock’s eyes find yours. You’re not sure if it’s just wishful thinking, but you swear that there’s just a fraction of sorrow hidden within them. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

The lump in your throat returns, but for all the wrong reasons this time. You nod in response to Sherlock’s words, unwilling to speak. When John returns, champagne glasses on hand, the bickering between he and Sherlock is a welcome respite from the disappointment lurking in your chest.

* * *

Mycroft sits alone at the back of the hall, hidden in the shadows. He’s one of the first to rise to his feet when you finish playing, pride rushing through his veins as he sees you receiving the audience’s adulation with such grace and modesty.

As he slips away privately, he prays that no-one catches the dampness in his eyes that’s emerged from your playing, and the depth of feelings that the music has stirred in him for you.

* * *

**October 5**

Baker Street   
Laughter bursts from your lips when you catch sight of Sherlock’s singed eyebrows upon entry into his living room. The man himself shoots you a look mutinous and withering in equal measure as he potters around the dining table, trying to salvage what’s left of the questionable looking substances lying haphazardly around him. Whilst rummaging around the kitchen and waiting for your tea to steep, it only takes you a couple of seconds to fiddle with your phone and snap a quick photo of Sherlock, eyebrows mismatching and soot on his face. Whipping around and observing the stifled laughter lines on your face, he rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“Sherlock Holmes, London’s famous consulting detective,” you muse as you tap your phone screen idly. A satisfied smile appears on your face as the picture makes its way to Greg, Mycroft and John. “Professional model too, by the looks of it.”

Sherlock snorts but doesn’t deign you with a response. Still chuckling under your breath, you step towards and settle into your armchair in the living area and open to your book to where you last finished. It’s another quiet and yet chaotic Wednesday afternoon at Baker Street, you think to yourself. Content, you draw a long sip from your mug of tea as you flick the page over.

As the afternoon morphs to evening, and then in turn night, you can’t help but smile when Greg and John’s reactions to your photo of Sherlock reach you. Whenever you look at your phone and laugh, Sherlock’s disgruntled looks follow you reproachfully. An innocent smile plays on your face in response.

You try your best not to think about the fact that Mycroft hasn’t replied to the photo, even though the application tells you that he’s seen it. Despite your efforts, it doesn’t take long for your mood to darken as the hours roll on when your phone stays resolutely silent.

* * *

**October 6**

Baker Street  
Fuming, you clench your fists tightly after resting your violin on the coffee table beside you in your room. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from storming out into the cold to get as far away as you can from the wretched notes on the page in front of you. You take a deep breath in before exhaling, silently willing yourself to come to your senses.

So far, your afternoon has largely consisted of attempts to begin relearning the Mozart A major violin concerto, each with varying degrees of success. The notes seem determined to refuse any kind of cooperation with you, even as you dredge up well-worn practice methods that mentors and teachers you’ve had have sworn by in the past. Nothing seems to be in tune enough for your liking, and details you grasped easily when you were younger repeatedly evade you now. Groaning, you collapse into the armchair, covering your face with your hands.

There’s an air of exhaustion emanating from you as you pick up your phone, mindlessly scrolling through your messages for lack of anything better to do. Somehow, you find yourself staring blankly at Mycroft’s contact. It’s been just under a fortnight since you last spoke to him, asking if he’d like a ticket to your most recent concert. Biting your lip, you begin to compose a message.

 _Can’t remember the last time I was this stuck while learning repertoire, god I need a break. And haven’t seen you in ages! Want to grab dinner tonight or something?  
_ _(F/i) (L/i)_

Your phone trades places with your violin on the coffee table as you huff and turn to face your music again, determined to get through at least the exposition before finishing your practice for the day. Progress is made slowly and painstakingly, until your phone vibrates through the table a few minutes later.

 _Out of the country for the next few days, unfortunately. Another time, (F/n).  
_ _MH_

Frowning, you purse your lips as you switch your phone off again. You somewhat unsuccessfully endeavour to reabsorb yourself in the intricacies of Mozart’s semiquavers, trying hard not to wonder exactly how far away Mycroft is from you.

* * *

Brezno, Slovakia  
The room is bare, and freezing to boot; he’s not sure how many feet underground he is, but it’s far too many for Mycroft’s liking. He detests the oppressiveness of the musty cold that surrounds him. A sigh escapes his lips as the thought of London flashes in his mind briefly.

Silently peering at the man sitting on a metal chair across from him, Mycroft watches steadily as his breath mists out in front of him. Deductions practically stream off the man; his posture is so open, it’s almost as if he’s asking to be read.

“Mishko Dobrovsky,” Mycroft tests the name out aloud, tasting it on his tongue. “Born in Bratislava, on the 12th of February 1988. By all accounts, a loving man dedicated to his wife and family. A regular at _u Hasica_ , favouring… Demanovkal, is it?”

Dobrovsky’s voice is a hoarse rasp. “Who are you?”

The question is left unanswered. Mycroft folds his arms and leans back in his chair, saying nothing, just looking.

“Tell me, Mr Dobrovsky,” he says finally. “How is your wife these days?”

Narrowing his eyes, the broad-shouldered Slovak man sits up a little straighter. “She’s well,” he replies tightly. “Who are you? How can you know these things?”

Mycroft sighs. He pushes himself forward towards the table and reaches to open the manila file before him. There’s no haste in his movement; everything is masterfully controlled, a carefully manicured performance. “Antiphospholipid syndrome, manifesting in severe pre-eclampsia discovered in the twenty-second week of her pregnancy,” he reads, sounding distinctly disinterested. His heart tightens as the words spill from his mouth. “There appears to be a significant risk of preterm birth in the range of-”

“Enough!” Dobrovsky stands and shouts abruptly.

Gazing into his eyes, Mycroft is absolutely sure that the man would be capable and willing to act. Perfect. He leans in close and opens his hands out to Dobrovsky, motioning for him to rejoin him at the table.

Breathing hard, the two men glare at each other once more when their gazes are level. Mycroft smiles emptily, the muscles contorting without it reaching his eyes. “I can take her to London Bridge,” he says in a low voice. “One of the finest hospitals in England, Mr Dobrovsky, with several specialists well versed in dealing with Hughes Syndrome...as you would know, I’m sure.”

The change in the man’s expression is transfixing; the rapid transformation between shock to hope, wonder to deep scepticism, fear to determination. “For what price?” Dobrovsky asks in return, leaning in closer to match the man opposite him.

There’s a flinty gleam in Mycroft’s eye. His assumptions were correct. The man had broken, just as he had expected. “Information,” Mycroft says, allowing himself a small smile.

He allows a man from the Home Office to take his place minutes later when he exits the room, the look in Dobrovsky’s eyes vaguely haunting him. As soon as the door closes and he stands behind the one way mirror, he breathes a sigh of relief. Anthea looks up at him silently from where she stands as he collects his thoughts.

“Several hundred hand-held weapons are the least of our worries,” he says at last. “The potential links to Moran, however...they are exponentially more concerning. It appears as if the vacuum Sherlock left behind is even larger than we anticipated.”

Pursing her lips, Anthea considers the scene in front of her. “We can have Tomaso and Jill on the case as of tomorrow afternoon, once they finish with the Russian investigation,” she suggests. “Shall I organise for the transport of the wife tonight, sir?”

“See to it,” Mycroft murmurs softly. “Swiftly, if you would, Anthea.”

She disappears with a nod, already beginning to type instructions on her phone as she strides away.

Mycroft is still considering the parting expression on Dobrovsky’s face when he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. He frowns. Only a handful of people have his personal number, and all of them are still in London; has something happened?

Groaning, Mycroft rubs his forehead as he shifts his weight from one leg to another, reading your message. He can ill afford any distractions while he’s working on home turf, let alone when he’s in the field. And you, you breach his defences every single time, without fail. He can already feel the rush of recollection as his mind recalibrates and summons the heady feeling of you in his arms, the beautiful creases in your forehead when you smile, the softness of your lips. The memories sting in his chest though, knowing that it’s likely that the only reason you’re texting him is because Greg is unavailable, or working late.

It simply wouldn’t do. Lives were at risk here. And not just those pertaining to national security, he thinks bitterly to himself, but also Mycroft’s own internal being. Polite as ever, he tries his best to be kind as he types out a response. Frankly, he’s not entirely sure that he succeeds.


	9. Conclusions of Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say apart from the fact that I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Let me know what you think in the comments - I really love hearing the feedback you guys give! It's truly amazing, and is one of the things that keeps me writing.

**October 21**

Angelo’s, London – 8pm  
Beside you, John almost splutters several pieces of ravioli out from his mouth in reaction to Sherlock’s analysis of the waiter who’d just brought his food. The scandalised expression on his face alongside the clueless question on Sherlock’s has become a constant in your life; an unusual one, you grant, but one you’re glad for all the same. Not even knowing what the two of them are discussing anymore, you chuckle quietly to yourself.

Your phone vibrates in the pocket of your jeans. Only half-listening to John’s voice, you absentmindedly grab it and turn it on underneath the table.

 _Big celebration going on tonight with everyone from the Met - Sherlock closed a big case this afternoon. Fancy a drink? GL_  

Smiling, you start to type out a response, aware that Sherlock is watching you.

 _I’m with the man himself and his better half right now at Angelo’s. Enough room for three?  
_ _(F/i) (L/i)_

_Of course. We’re at Garrick Arms, right by the Yard. See you soon. GL_

Looking up from the screen of your phone, you’re immediately met with raised eyebrows from Sherlock. “Greg’s at the pub,” you start. “Apparently half the Met’s there. Anyone keen for a pint?”

John grins. “I bloody deserve one after these last few days,” he says with a laugh. “You’d better buy me at least a couple after dragging me through all that mud last night, Sherlock.”

A scandalised expression on his face, Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes. “I don’t do pubs,” he says supremely, as if that’s enough justification in itself. You share a look with John, mischief playing in your eyes as you cheerfully ask for the bill.

* * *

Half an hour later, the three of you emerge from a taxi and quickly head towards the Garrick Arms’ entrance, trying and failing to avoid the rain. The disgruntled look on Sherlock’s face alone has already made it worth coming out tonight, you think to yourself with an internal laugh, as you saunter through the front door. Even considering the thirty minutes of aggrieved Sherlock-ness that you and John had already put up with in the cab ride.

“(F/n)!” Greg’s voice cuts through the throng of voices mixed in with live music wafting from somewhere in the pub as he pushes his way towards you. His eyes sparkle as he opens his arms, pulling you into a friendly hug. “Good to see you again! Sorry again that I couldn’t make it to your concert.”

“No worries at all,” you reply, smiling, drawing back from the hug. You’ve never been quite so grateful that Greg is as welcoming as he is; there’s not a trace of awkwardness in the air, even though you’d rejected his advances the last time you’d seen him. Pulling a face as Greg stumbles after you release your grip on him, you chuckle and shoot him a knowing look. “Seems like I’ve got a bit of catching up to get to your level! I’ll be right back with a drink.”

“Hang on a sec,” he calls out as you meander away in the direction of the bar. Turning back, you see him motioning towards himself and a rather short, dark haired woman.

“This is Molly, (F/n),” Greg announces with a pleased expression on his face. “She’s a bloody genius in the morgue for us. Couldn’t have solved this one without her!”

Molly blushes as she shakes your hand. “Greg’s too kind,” she laughs. “And besides; we all know that Sherlock’s the real genius in the room tonight.”

The genuine affection in her voice for Sherlock alone warms you to her before you even know the slightest thing about her. It’s a stark but welcome change from the rest of the Met’s grudging respect at best, outright dislike at worst. “It’s nice to meet you,” you reply warmly. “Though honestly, Sherlock’s almost always the real genius in every room.” Except when Mycroft is around you think inwardly, grinning.

Greg guffaws as he squeezes Molly’s shoulders. You raise your eyebrows at him and he shrugs innocently in return, smiling. “Anyway, you go on and enjoy yourselves,” you say, shooting a pointed look at Greg. “I’ll be right back with a drink.”

Joining John in the queue for the bar, you miss Sherlock walking up to Greg a few minutes later after Molly bumps into a friend from Barts. The two of them end up at a table together, watching the pub’s cover band blast through a slew of eighties hits. People around them gradually join the dance floor with their newfound boozy courage. Greg laughs at a man tripping over his feet while Sherlock remains expressionless, eyes fixed on his colleague.

After a few moments, he plays up his already imposing figure in his long coat and angular features with a steely glare. “When exactly did you realise you had feelings for (F/n), Garrett?” he asks suddenly, not really knowing where to begin as he looks at Greg piercingly.

Half choking on his beer, Greg twists around to look at Sherlock as his mouth hangs open. “God, that came from nowhere... I don’t really have feelings for her anymore,” he replies slowly, unsure of where that outburst had emerged from. “We went on a date, it didn’t turn out how I expected. She said she can’t get this other guy out of her head, or something along those lines.”

The half sceptical, half surprised expression on Sherlock’s face makes Greg laugh. Sherlock being surprised is a rare, if not unheard of, occurrence. “We’re better as friends anyway, I think,” Greg adds as an afterthought, taking another mouthful from his pint.

A thoughtful look crosses Sherlock’s eyes. “Interesting,” he says seriously, turning away from Greg again. “Well, I suppose it’s for the best. God knows how much a relationship would detract from your already abysmal observational skills.”

“Oi!” Greg says, good-naturedly. Before he can defend his pride, Sherlock quietly slinks off to the other side of the pub, out of Greg’s sight. He rolls his eyes. Gulping down more beer, it’s not long before he gets up from his seat in search of Molly.

The hours pass quickly in an alcohol-fuelled haze, you find. Met officers and civilians alike roar in delight when you and Greg somehow manage to convince both Sherlock and John to down several shots in a row. You can’t help but giggle when Sherlock remains distinctly unimpressed by your antics, while John, already several pints in, flails his arms and stumbles in the general direction of the dance floor. The music blares as you twirl around with both John and Greg, chortling at the increasingly ridiculous moves they whip out.

It's consequently unclear to you whether the dizziness you’re experiencing is due to the alcohol, or Greg’s crazy method of spinning you while dancing. Staggering to the bathroom, you blink several times as you adjust to the sudden brightness. With your mind in a pleasant sort of fog, you’re not entirely sure how your phone finds itself in your hands after you wash and dry them. You shrug and turn it on anyway, the words sliding in and out of focus ever so slightly.

Frowning, you peer at the screen uncomprehendingly when your message history flashes up. _Sherlock, Greg, Mum, John._ Mycroft’s name doesn’t make an appearance for a good week. Something that needs to be remedied right now, you decide quickly, stabbing at his contact with clumsy fingers.

_Myc !_

_You back in Lndon yet? Haven’t heard from u in a whle_

_We should go for anther dinner sometime soon…….you and me. But not at  the fancy pasta place again coz Ive got the bill this time. Ok?_

You nod to yourself, satisfied. And with that you march back out to the bar, dismayed to see that the dance floor has cleared rapidly. Greg clears his throat loudly, and you turn to see him indicating towards the empty bar stool next to him.

“Drink?” he asks as soon as you’re sat beside him. You nod thankfully, taking another look around as Greg hails the bartender and orders another beer for you. 

“Sherlock and John?” you query, not seeing them anywhere in your vicinity. Smiling in gratitude as a pint is pushed in your direction by Greg, you draw a long sip. 

Greg laughs. “John got dragged back to Baker Street by our favourite detective, would you believe it,” he says, grinning. “You should’ve seen it. Sherlock half carried him out the door.”

“I always wondered about those two,” you say consideringly.

Greg lifts his glass and quaffs a mouthful. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, savouring the crispness of your respective drinks. Looking back up at you, he hesitates and opens his mouth before closing it again.

Finally, he starts again properly. “I’m glad that night didn’t things weird between us.”

“God forbid,” you laugh. “You're too good for that, Greg.”

He grins before turning back to eye the sports screens on his right. Companionable silence follows as your eyes sweep around the room and settle on a man at the other side of the bar, looking at you with something unfathomable in his eyes. Squinting, you try and make out his features, even though your vision is starting to get a little blurred; dark brown hair, tall in stature, lean. You catch a quick glimpse at his dark eyes before he receives his drink and walks away.

You shiver. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about him, but you can’t put your finger on what exactly it is. It’s something about the way he walks, you think to yourself, or maybe-

Greg interrupts your thoughts with a question. “Out of interest,” he begins, meeting your eyes again. “Who’s this guy you’re still getting over, if you don’t mind me asking? Feel free to shoot me down if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Sighing, you drain the rest of your beer before closing your eyes for a second. When you open them again the barman quirks his head to one side questioningly, eyes motioning to your empty glass. You nod and hand over your debit card as he begins to pour you a new pint along with one for Greg. Greg sits patiently, watching the exchange with equanimity.

Once there’s a fresh drink before you, you start to speak slowly. “Well, I, uh. I was with this guy, Sebastian. For a couple of years,” you begin, unsure of yourself. Another rather large sip of beer gives you the courage to continue talking. “He cheated on me with three other women. Or at least I think it’s three. Never quite worked out if that was all.”

Gripping your arm sympathetically, Greg shakes his head but says nothing. You’re glad; you’re not sure how to express the myriad of feelings that Sebastian evokes in you. But tonight, it feels a little better, you reflect. Almost as if he’s more distant from you, less close to the surface.

“But it’s Mycroft Holmes that I’m sort of stuck on at the moment,” you continue, the words leaving your mouth in a rush as you look away. The room spins slightly as you turn your head, wondering for half a second where that other man had gone off to. “I...I think I'm mostly over Sebastian now. After my last concert, I let a lot of things out, I guess.”

Greg’s glass clinks loudly as he sets it down heavily, staring at you. “Mycroft?” he says, slightly incredulously. Motioning for another drink, two glasses of whiskey are eventually placed in front of the two of you. Scrunching his face up, Greg coughs before speaking again. “God, that’s less smooth than I remember it being. But anyway, you were saying. Mycroft Holmes, of all people?”

Chuckling, you pull the whiskey closer to you and take a sniff. You wrinkle your nose before taking the plunge and gasping a second later. The spirit is just as rough as it looked on Greg’s face. You grimace. “The one and only,“ you say, finding your voice again.

“I thought there was something there. He kissed me a few times, took me out for dinner,” you continue, swallowing. “I told him I wasn’t ready, but god. That only made him more insistent. And then he disappeared off the face of the earth, or something. I don’t know. He doesn’t really answer my messages properly anymore.”

The two of you sit in silence as Greg processes your words, and you wonder how on earth you had the courage to say all this. Draining your glass of whiskey, you catch the bartender’s eye and ask for a refill, hoping that your words aren’t slurred.

“Well he’s a bit of an idiot then, isn’t he?” Greg finally says, watching you gingerly sip your new drink with trepidation. He leaves his untouched. “You’re amazing, (F/n). The man’s got to be stupid to see that and then have the nerve to let you go.”

You shrug. “Idiot or not, there’s not much I can do about it,” you reply, sighing. “I don’t think he’s happy that we went out for dinner.”

“Have you talked to him about it?” Greg asks, rolling his empty glass around in his hand and watching the foam trickle from side to side.

“He won’t have any of it. I’ve invited him out, but he turns me down every time,” you say, taking a sip from your beer again. Your face twists in distaste as it washes down your throat; it’s already warm. “Not sure what else to do, honestly.”

Greg makes a noise in agreement, dipping his head to one side as he thinks for a few seconds. “I don’t know, (F/n),” he says eventually. “I dunno.”

Sighing, both of you finish the last of your drinks. Weariness begins to set in as you place the glass back on the countertop. “I should probably get home,” you say, groaning. An all-too familiar pounding in your head has gotten worse in the last couple of minutes, just as your stomach has decided to make itself known to you once more. “That’s probably as much of sad, drunk (F/n) you’ll want to see, in any case.”

It’s lucky that Greg’s reflexes have remained on foot, steadying you as you stumble from the stool. He laughs. “Anytime, (F/n),” he says warmly. “I understand. Come on, I’ll come out and call a cab for you.” 

* * *

“You’re drunk,” Sherlock says distastefully as you lurch unsteadily into 221B’s living room. He’s in his royal blue dressing gown, crouched over his laptop on the kitchen table. “Try and avoid throwing up on the sofa, if it’s not too much trouble.” Ignoring his words, you shrug before flopping down on his couch.

Mycroft still hasn’t replied. Logically, you’re aware that he could be in the middle of negotiating a nuclear weapons treaty for all you know. But as always, the heart rules the head with an iron fist; possibilities buzz around your mind restlessly, each more uncomfortable than the next. It feels vaguely as if you’re sinking under the weight of uncertainty, the alcohol not helping to keep you afloat any longer.

“I think I blew it with your brother,” you say softly, breaking the silence. You bite your lip. Saying it out loud somehow makes it feel far more real than it seemed in your mind.

Looking up at you from his computer, Sherlock narrows his eyes. You resign yourself to being read from back to front, waiting for a cutting remark to put you out of your misery. The room spins before you, the pattern in the wallpaper imprinting itself all over your vision.

“I made a mistake,” you start again, unable to stop the words now that they’ve begun to flow. “I took too long to decide, and now it’s too late.”

Pausing as if to chew on his words, Sherlock stands and begins to make a cup of tea. “Mycroft is...complex, (F/n). I wouldn’t be so swift in deciding that,” He says slowly, cautiously. His expression is unsure. This isn’t his area of expertise by any means. “He-”

You shake your head. “The concert, dinner last Thursday, the texts tonight. He’s not interested,” you say trying not to sound too miserable. “It seems fairly obvious, even to me.”

Sherlock purses his lips, not having a response to that. To an outside observer, he supposes it’s not an unfounded conclusion.  “Go to sleep, (F/n),” he says finally. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

* * *

Dartmouth House, London – 8pm  
The fleeting brush of a hand on his forearm catches him by surprise. Frowning, Mycroft glances away from the MP for Hammersmith, eyes searching for the cause of his disturbance.

A lithe, dark haired woman smiles elusively at him before turning away, swallowed into the crowd at the ballroom’s entrance. The striking red of her dress, gently clinging to her figure, makes her unmistakeable from those surrounding her. Mycroft stares after her for a second, unable to break his gaze.

“Mr Holmes?” The MP looks inquiringly at him.

Coughing, he forces a smile at the man. “My apologies, Mr Slaughter,” he murmurs, unsettled.

The conversation continues for an infuriatingly long time as the Churchill Room gradually begins to fill. Resplendent men and women clutch beverages like their lives depend on it as they turn on their most charming smiles, playing a game long practiced amongst the upper echelons of English society. Mycroft is no exception to this. He’s a master of the delicate contest before him; cunning, charming and cryptic in equal parts.

When Hammersmith’s representative finally makes his excuses, Mycroft smiles and nods graciously, shaking his hand. As soon as the man’s back is turned, he allows a grimace to form ever so briefly on his face. There’s no external sign of relief on his face when he’s finally offered a cocktail by a passing waiter, save a quiet exhale. Checking his phone briefly, he scans the only message he’s received – Anthea’s latest report on tonight’s proceedings – before turning it off completely. It wouldn’t do to be distracted tonight.

Softly, a string quartet begins to play in a corner of the room. He smiles when he recognises the harmony and melody of the piece; the first movement of Borodin’s String Quartet No. 2. A slightly surprising choice for evening music, but an enjoyable one, nevertheless.  

Watching the two violinists’ bows gliding from string to string, Mycroft’s memory stirs. For a second you’re standing on the Barbican stage in his mind’s eye, swaying as you play, the slight train of your dress following your movement. He sighs. Try as he might, he’s unable to escape from the wanderings of his own mind.

“They’re fantastic, aren’t they?” The woman from before smiles faintly behind him as Mycroft turns. A glass of white wine rests in her hand as she watches the quartet. “I’ve always wished that I could play like that.”

Looking towards her, Mycroft swallows. Though his face remains impassive, he can’t help but blink as his peripheral vision suddenly dumps an abundance of observations upon his mind to process. Even disregarding finer details, he knows she’s beautiful; the way that she holds herself, radiating poise and self-assurance without straying to arrogance, almost makes him shiver.

But in the back of his mind, he thinks of you. Something in Mycroft’s stomach clenches hard when he thinks of your bright (e/c) eyes, the curve of your body in his arms as he kisses you, the way he has to tear his gaze away from you at the last second every time he catches sight of you. There’s a physical ache in his chest when you cross his mind.

“It’s exquisite playing,” he manages, unsure of what to say.

She smiles and turns towards him, her brown eyes sparkling. Taking a sip from her glass, she holds his gaze as she speaks. Her lips are just as bold and alluring as her dress. “Amanda Zheng, by the way.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he replies, more smoothly this time. “Pleased to meet you.”

Amanda dips her head and smiles in response, her attention shifting back towards the music. Turning his gaze back towards the room, Mycroft quietly observes the spread of people before him, offhandedly making note of the connections being formed in the room tonight.

A sigh escapes Amanda when the piece comes to an end. Her bare shoulders relax as her concentration on the music fades, before a pianist behind the quartet begins a Chopin waltz. Mycroft watches on as a few men and women gracefully begin to dance, swirling in time to the beat.

Setting her empty glass on a nearby table, she steps closer to Mycroft when she returns. The distance between their bodies is next to negligible, but there’s no touch this time. Mycroft’s nerves feel as if someone has just laid a match beside them.

“Would you like to dance, Mr Holmes?” Amanda’s voice is quiet this time. Her eyes are fixed away from him and on the dancers in front of them.

“It’d be my pleasure,” Mycroft murmurs in reply.

Taking his hand, she leads him to the centre of the room to join the rest of the swaying couples, Mycroft’s free hand quickly finding her waist and Amanda’s his shoulder. The proximity really does make him shiver this time. He hasn’t been this close to anyone in weeks...not since he last saw you, and you’d left to see Greg.

Yet here he is, with a beautiful woman in his arms. Not as appealing as you, Mycroft thinks privately, but even still, the fact remains. And she _wants_ him. He can read it in her elevated pulse, the slight part in her lips, the slight dilation in her pupils. Would it really be so wrong to enjoy the night for what it is? It’s not as if he and you are together; you’ve made sure of that. And you and Greg...at his that night… Mycroft can’t even stand to finish the thought. But still, it feels-

His thoughts are interrupted as Amanda pulls him in a fraction closer, another smile ghosting her lips. “So, Mr Holmes,” she begins, both of them moving gracefully across the floor.

“Mycroft, please,” he interjects, a smile forming on his face in turn.

“Mycroft, then,” Amanda amends. “What do you do?”

“I occupy a minor position in the British government,” he recites easily, the well-rehearsed line rolling off his tongue. “And yourself?”

“I’m on the board of Hogan Lovells,” she says nonchalantly. “I represent the London branch.”

Raising his eyebrows, Mycroft hums. “I read law myself, at Oxford,” he tells her, the unspoken question in the air.

“Cambridge for me,” Amanda says, flashing a quick grin. Mycroft can’t help but smile again.

A new piece begins on the piano, one a little more modern. Closing her eyes for a second in appreciation, Amanda lets Mycroft lead as she listens in silence. Her beauty is unrivalled in the room, he thinks to himself, and she’s in his arms. And intelligent too, if Cambridge is anything to judge by. Something in him rises, smiling contentedly. Temptation whispers in his ear as he holds her, the trust between them implicit in the relinquishing of her control.

In that moment, Mycroft surrenders to himself. He leads the hand Amanda has in his towards his shoulder, matching the other. Gently, both of his hands wrap around the small of her back. Tingles shimmer up from his hands when he’s met with bare skin, her dress cut low.

He casts as many thoughts of you as he can aside. All the pain, the loss; for one night he would allow himself respite from it. Just once. That’s all he needs.

To be wanted, _desired_...the heady pleasure of it rushes through him. The weight of it staggers him.

Reopening her eyes, Amanda finds her face centimetres from Mycroft’s. His gaze falls to her lips, unable to resist himself now that the anchor has been raised. The warmth of her breath on the tip of his nose is intoxicating as her eyes focus on his. “Someone might assume you have an ulterior motive here, Mycroft,” she whispers quietly.

“One might say the same about you, Amanda,” he breathes back. Her arms leisurely wrap themselves around Mycroft above his shoulders, fingers brushing delicately against the back of his neck.

The enticing smile on her face spreads as Amanda’s hands eventually fall and find Mycroft’s, their steps echoing quietly in the hallway as they make towards the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The red dress in this chapter is based off this one, if you're curious. 
> 
> https://somethingborrowed.net.au/melbourne/dress/priscilla-gown/


	10. Think On Your Sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks for all the comments on last chapter - I loved seeing all of your reactions! Hopefully this chapter can fulfil everyone's expectations; let me know what you all liked/disliked etc. Your feedback is always much appreciated and I'm so grateful to you guys for taking the time to read and comment! 
> 
> Expect another update (possibly two) in the coming week; after that they will probably slow quite drastically to one every two/three weeks since I'll be starting uni again.
> 
> A quick note re the overall length of this fic: I've vaguely planned for it to have approximately 25 chapters in total, and potentially an epilogue. This may change to slightly longer, depending on how long the next few chapters are, but I'll keep you guys updated!

**October 22**

Light streams through unfamiliar curtains the next morning, dazzling Mycroft as he stirs on the right side of the bed. Beside him, smooth skin peeks out from the covers. For a faint moment he forgets where he is and feels his heart leap; the next second sees his hopes dashed as the duvet shifts to reveal Amanda’s profile, eyes still closed in sleep and long hair splayed over her pillow.

A tremor wracks his body as memories flood his mind. Mycroft bites his lip and stares at the ceiling as he remembers bodies arching off the bed, impossible closeness and both their voices united in the dark. And he winces as he feels his tongue on his teeth, sore where he bit down to stop himself from crying out your name.

Thoughts circle haphazardly in his mind without his control in seemingly unrelated ways. He hugs his arms to his chest as he wonders why on earth he feels so frayed and raw inside after a night of warmth and fire.

It’s only minutes later when two things occur to him. The first is that his parents are arriving today in London at around lunchtime. And the second is that everywhere Mycroft turns in his mind palace, you’re there. The expression in your eyes breaks something in him, even as you’re smiling. Sorrow and hurt is barely veiled behind a veneer of bittersweet ambivalence...because you _know_. There’s nothing he can hide from you.

Suddenly, it’s clear as day to Mycroft. He almost groans aloud at his own stupidity.

You may not be his, but he is most certainly yours. Though he may not be committed to you in the traditional sense, the fact remains that he still can’t get you out of his head, and probably won’t as far as he can see.

Guilt clouds his system as he considers the mistake he’s made. Not even Mycroft Holmes can prevent a fall from the vices of his flesh, he thinks to himself bitterly. His skin crawls as he shudders, unable to stop thinking about you. It’s betrayal that he’s committed, a betrayal of your trust.

Unable to bear lying beside Amanda for another second, he quietly lifts the duvet off himself and stands, before beginning to search for his clothes. She stirs as he shuffles around the room, pulling on his suit pants in the process before moving to his neighbouring shoes and socks. Her eyes are still bleary as she frowns, sleepily watching Mycroft buttoning up his shirt as swiftly as he can manage.

“Mycroft?” Amanda asks foggily. “Are you leaving already?”

He manages a rather forced smile as he slips his arms into his jacket, feeling for his phone and watch in his pockets. “My parents are due to arrive at my brother’s flat in…” Mycroft looks down at his watch briefly as he fastens it to his wrist, “...just under an hour. Please, don’t get up on my account.”

“Right,” she says doubtfully, eyebrows knitted. “Well, thank you for last night in any case. You were _delightful_.”

Mycroft pauses as he reaches the door. Twisting around, he swallows as she sees Amanda sitting up in bed, covers spilling out over the bed. She’s wearing nothing, the quiet confidence that had drawn him to her rolling in waves throughout the room.

“As were you,” he replies almost automatically, skin crawling again as he realises that he means it, at least in part. Dropping his gaze, he turns back and opens the door gently. It’s only a matter of seconds before he’s out in fresh air again, guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders.

* * *

The purr of the Audi begins to soothe him as Mycroft tears down back streets of London, eyes flicking rapidly between the road before him and the clock. But even still, he can’t rid himself of the pangs of conscience that are accumulating in his mind. There's a sinking sensation that refuses to stop inside him, thoughts of your sorrowful face still swirling aimlessly. He’s still restless when he parks in front of Baker Street and steps through the front door before navigating the stairs, not giving himself the chance to so much as look at your door.

“The train’s late. (F/n)’s out-” Sherlock suddenly halts as his brother comes into in his peripheral vision. Looking up from his laptop, he narrows his eyes at Mycroft for a second before his mouth twists sardonically. “You’ve had sex. And not with (F/n).”

Mycroft’s lips tighten. He says nothing as he strides into 221B, peering around the room as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. It’s as if he's struggling for air internally, fighting to breathe and find respite from his guilt. But no signs of this show externally; outwardly he gazes distastefully at the precariously high stack of dishes and bowls by the sink of the kitchen, beginning to open cupboards here and there in search of tea.

Rounding on Mycroft as he faces away from the room, Sherlock stares keenly at him. The laser-like precision in his scan leaves no detail unobserved, his lips pursing in displeasure as he reads his brother like a book. “There’s a faint smear of _Rouge D’Armani_ that’s just visible near the corner of your mouth. Tasteful, but far more bold than one would wear to a function directly related to work. Your suit suggests formality, but your shoes are more casual than your typical severity allows,” Sherlock speaks, pacing around Mycroft as he self-consciously rubs his face.

Finally turning to face his brother, Mycroft scowls when Sherlock raises an eyebrow as he casts a curious gaze at the faint creases littering his suit. “You know better than to let suits crumple on the floor, and yet you let both your jacket and trousers lie unattended for...eight to nine hours, judging by the depth of the creases,” distaste evident in Sherlock’s words. “The two of you must’ve been in a hurry, then. She must have undressed you, judging by the-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts with something close to a growl as he sidesteps his brother, making a beeline for the living room in an attempt to escape. He tries and fails to keep his voice level.

Sherlock laughs mockingly. “Did you enjoy sharing a bed with someone, for once? God knows you reek of it.”

Flushing, Mycroft clenches his fists. He’s not sure what he’ll do if he can’t keep a very strong lid on his temper. “What I do in my private life is my choice alone, brother dear,” he says in a low voice, trying to maintain the semblance of control. “And it’s not as if (F/n) and I are...engaged...in anything. She has the Detective Inspector, and I fully-”

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock looks disbelievingly at him. He shakes his head incredulously. Jaw tightening in suspicion, Mycroft stops speaking.

“(F/n)’s not interested in Greg, you idiot,” Sherlock says, exasperated. “She’s interested in _you_ , as hard as I find it to believe.”

It feels to Mycroft almost as if the world has come to a grinding halt. _You’re not interested in Greg. You’re interested in him. Mycroft. Him._ For a while he’s aware of nothing but the rapid beat of his heart over everything else in his ears. His blood burns in his veins as his stomach swoops without warning. In the distance he’s vaguely aware of Sherlock watching him crumble with disdain, his arms folded.

With difficulty, Mycroft musters himself together and swallows. The words Sherlock so carelessly uttered still reverberate throughout his system, twisting his feelings into obscure patterns that are indiscernible even to himself. He presses his lips together for a moment, not trusting himself to speak. Even after he’s certain that he’s capable of speech, he aches.

Sherlock rolls his eyes before he begins to speak again. “She came home drunk last night. And upset,” he adds roughly, not mincing his words. “She was close to tears. You’ve been avoiding her, and believe me, she’s felt it.”

A cold feeling descends on Mycroft, immediately dousing any excitement from him. He finds himself unable to open his mouth to defend himself. In that second he's sure that he wouldn't be able to stand the sight of you on him, a man so lowly that he can't see the truth before his eyes.

“ _I think I blew it with your brother_ , (F/n) said,” Sherlock says grimly. “But that’s not true, is it, Mycroft? Because I’m fairly sure it’s you that’s blown it, don’t you agree?”

Quiet falls in the room when Sherlock finishes his piece. “Just switch your phone on, if you don’t believe me,” he finishes with a shrug, gesturing carelessly towards Mycroft’s pockets. He steps from the kitchen to his armchair where he sits, steepling his fingers and staring at the silent man across from him.

Not saying a word, Mycroft withdraws his phone from the right pocket of his trousers. His fingers are shaking slightly as he turns it on, holding down the power button for a few seconds. The sound of several text notifications rings through the room when the screen finally flashes on.

_Myc !_

_You back in Lndon yet? Haven’t heard from u in a whle_

_We should go for anther dinner sometime soon…….you + me. But not at  the fancy pasta place again coz Ive got the bill this time. Ok?_

No words can accurately describe the hole that develops within Mycroft and threatens to swallow him whole, dangling on the edge of the precipice. He peers at the screen silently. There’s joy and fear and anxiety and love and nerves and self-directed rage pulsing through him simultaneously, each clamouring for his attention. In the end he simply feels them all, unable to discern the borders between them anymore. No words fall from his mouth as Sherlock looks on emptily, his self-proclaimed mission accomplished

“I don’t deserve her,” Mycroft finally says, quiet.

Sherlock’s voice is harsh. “No, you don’t.”

The Iceman, his colleagues and enemies alike call him. If they could see him now, Mycroft doesn’t think they’d recognise him. The hurt that flares in him at Sherlock’s curt words stings all the more from the recognition that they are, in fact, true. He teeters on the cliff of collapse internally. Everything around him swims in his vision as for a second he threatens to lose control. That you’re so willing to keep trying on him, despite the times he’s pained you, shut you out, even chosen someone else over you; it astounds him. And it’s partially why his shame is so great; how on earth could someone as good and kind as you take it upon yourself to find interest in someone as perilously oblivious and hurtful as him?

Several minutes pass without either brother speaking. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on Mycroft’s still figure before he breaks the silence once more. His voice is softer this time, but no gentler. “There’ll be hell to pay when she finds out about this, Mycroft.”

“She’s not to know, Sherlock.” Eyes glinting dangerously, Mycroft speaks testily.

The least he can do is spare you any further pain from him, he thinks to himself, despairing at the hurt he’s already caused you. The thought that the anguished expression on your face that he can't stop imagining might become real is terrifying to him.

Sherlock laughs out loud and draws his lips into a sneer. The sound jars Mycroft’s ears. “I knew this would happen,” he says, disgusted. “John did too. He even told you not to play games with her feelings. You really are a heartless bastard, aren’t you?”

Something in Mycroft breaks a little when he hears those words coming from his own brother’s mouth directed at him, defending the woman that he loves. And he _does_ love you; there is no other word that exists to sufficiently portray the depth of his feelings for you as far as he is aware. But he’s been absolutely disastrous in trying to express it, he reflects, furious with himself. There is no way that he can ever deserve you. All that's left to do is to cauterise the wound, and minimise any future harm that may come to you by his actions.

Mycroft's voice goes quiet. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep you from hurting. “Please, Sherlock. I beg you.”

The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. No surprise shows on Sherlock’s face, but Mycroft’s words render him all the more suspicious. He honestly can’t remember the last time he’s heard Mycroft speak with such desperation and fear in his voice. Saying nothing, Sherlock continues to examine his face, searching for any signs of deceit. But he finds none; only anxiety, fear and...heartbreak.

That particular emotion was not one that Sherlock had ever expected to see on his brother’s face.

A sudden knock on the door cleaves the silence and doubles the tension in the room. Mycroft remains motionless, save for his fingers tightening in his fists. Quietly padding to the entrance, Sherlock looks back at him, shaking his head. The door slowly creaks open.

“Boys! Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” An older woman barrels into the living room, throwing her arms around Sherlock. He almost stumbles back, the unexpected force of her nearly pushing him off balance. Smiling tenderly, the woman rubs his back knowingly even as he stands stock still in the embrace. She pulls back, an accusatory tone in her voice. “Have you been eating enough, Sherlock?”

“Yes, Mummy,” he mutters under his breath, subtly attempting to extricate himself from his mother’s grip.

A tall, white-haired man saunters through the door moments later, smiling absentmindedly. His eyes brighten when they meet Mycroft’s. Stepping forward and pulling his son into his arms briefly, Siger squeezes gently as Mycroft pats his back several times, not quite knowing how to react.

“And you, Mykie!” Finally relinquishing her hold over Sherlock, Violet moves to face Mycroft, hands on her hips. “It’s been weeks since you’ve called!”

Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Mycroft manages a slightly awkward smile. “It’s nice to see you too, Mummy,” he says as he finds her arms surrounding him. His mind is whirling with abandon. Between considering you and now having to interact with his parents, his brain is working harder than it has had to in several days at least.

Beaming, Violet releases him and finds Siger’s hand. It’s not long before the Holmes family are seated facing each other, each clutching a steaming mug of tea. Mycroft steadfastly avoids Sherlock’s gaze, carefully sipping his long awaited drink.

“...and the tulips are settling into the garden splendidly after that first bit of rain we had last week. We’re quite looking forward to the blooms in March, you’ll have to come down and see them,” Violet continues enthusiastically. Siger, a more soft-spoken man, smiles and nods in agreement.

“But that's enough about us,” Violet says, switching her gaze between her two sons. “How's your new flatmate, Sherlock? And John?”

“(F/n) is well, but out at present. John is sinking into a puddle of domesticity and is all the worse for it,” Sherlock answers, bored. He twirls a pen in his hand idly, fingers twitching sporadically.

Knowing full well how to read between the lines of Sherlock’s exaggerations, Violet nods sympathetically. “And what's (F/n) been up to lately? What does she do again? You mentioned she’s an artist, or something like that.”

“A violinist,” Sherlock corrects. He glances sideways at Mycroft, challenging him in his look. Mycroft purses his lips. “She had a concert a few weeks ago and has a few coming up in the new year.” Satisfied momentarily, Violet sits back in the couch and sips down some tea.

“Do you know her at all, Mycroft? What do you think of her?” Siger asks, joining the conversation.

He stiffens when he hears his name. Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft can see Sherlock sniggering quietly to himself. Gritting his teeth and drawing himself together, he licks his lips quickly in preparation. “(F/n) is a lovely woman,” he says slowly, hardly knowing where to begin. “I...she’s very tolerant for continuing to live with Sherlock.”

“We’ll have to meet her soon, then,” Violet decides firmly. “Will she be home today?”

Sherlock stares pointedly at Mycroft, who looks blankly back at him. It's all he can manage when his stomach seizes up with anxiety at the thought of actually seeing you again, after what he's done.

“Perhaps later, Mummy,” Sherlock says, mouth twisting as he continues to gaze at Mycroft. Swallowing, Mycroft studiously refuses to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

The conversation continues for quite a while yet, much to the boys’ collective dismay. Glancing at his watch every few minutes, Mycroft sighs. How many more questions could possibly be asked of him? The air in the room seems impossibly crowded. Looking down at his tea to avoid making eye contact with anyone, his mind begins to wander and worry over you again.

He's jolted from his reverie for the second time when he hears his name being said aloud. “-so, Mykie dear, are you seeing anyone yet? Can I expect someone for Christmas dinner with us?” Violet asks pleadingly, a twinkle in her eye.

The split second before Sherlock opens his mouth, Mycroft realises what he's going to say. Groaning internally, he wonders what on earth he's done to deserve a brother who regularly appoints himself as the hero of others. He folds his arms and presses his lips into a straight line.

“Funny you should ask, Mummy. Mycroft has...shacked up with someone only recently. From work, if I’m not mistaken,” Sherlock rushes in with glee. The opportunity is too good to resist. Taking great pleasure in outmanoeuvring Mycroft for once, he smiles innocently at his brother.

Mycroft in turn shoots a glare filled with daggers at him. Sherlock merely looks at him coldly in return as Violet coos over him. “You never told us, Mycroft!” Violet says excitedly. “What's their name? What do they do?”

Clearing his throat, Mycroft tries to think quickly about how he's going to respond. He knows full well he can't say anything about you; not after what he's done. But simultaneously, he knows that he has no interest in pursuing something with Amanda and is reluctant to drag her into this.

Diplomatically, he forces a smile and opens his hands. “It’s nothing, Mummy. Sherlock’s just being Sherlock. Really, I’m not-” Mycroft tries to get out before he is interrupted again.

“We’ll have to have them over for Christmas!” Violet declares happily.

Mycroft groans and tries to reassert himself. “Mummy, there's nothing going on, she’s not..I mean, we’re not-”

Violet isn’t having any of it. “I’ll expect her there, Mykie,” she says firmly. “And you’ll have to bring someone too, then, Sherlock.”

Upon hearing these words, Mycroft looks triumphantly over at Sherlock. But there’s a smirk on his face, one that glowers at Mycroft and betrays a myriad of intentions.

“That won’t be a problem, Mummy,” Sherlock says smoothly, looking straight at Mycroft. His heart sinks as Sherlock's mouth quirks into a smile. “I’m sure (F/n) would love to spend Christmas with us all, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Sherlock is trying to put Mycroft in his place by inviting (F/n) to Christmas and is just being a bit oblivious to the pain that it will potentially case her, which I really wouldn't put past his character. He is in no way trying to purposely hurt Reader in doing so!


	11. War Is Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been blown away by all of your comments on the last updates - you guys are phenomenal. Thank you so much for your time and love <3 Will hopefully have another update out this weekend or the start of next week, but this one might take a bit longer as I'm getting ready to go back to uni and will be spending half of my weekend on a plane ! Hope you guys enjoy this update in the meantime.

**December 25**

You’re rendered speechless as the Holmes’ home in Sussex comes into view from the car window. Siger’s car rumbles gently over the gravel as it slowly comes to a halt, revealing the rest of the grounds. “Welcome to Hylters Barn,” he says simply, smiling.

Sherlock bounds out as soon as he can, restless. In stark contrast, you absentmindedly step out and remain wordless. The view is breathtaking; a valley stretches as far as the horizon behind the house, the perfect backdrop. You’re struck by how green it is around you, the only exception being the seemingly ancient brick and flint of the buildings. The garden has been beautifully tended to, complementing the open space with ease.

“Wow,” you breathe, unable to stop grinning. Siger looks pleased with your reaction, stopping to admire the view with you as he lifts your bag from the car boot.

“Rather good, isn’t it?” he remarks quietly, an expression of serenity on his face.

“Beautiful doesn’t do it justice,” you agree as you hasten to take your bag from him. Together, you walk slowly towards the entrance, chuckling as Sherlock races inside without a second thought.

A sharp intake of breath is audible when you catch up with him and cross the threshold of the house. The combination of white walls, red and orange bricks as well as the timber framing of the converted barn is simultaneously warm, inviting and airy. Light streams in from the ceiling high windows, opening to the back garden. “I think I’m in love,” you murmur, stepping towards the glass. The view is phenomenal.

Chuckling, Siger claps you on the shoulder. “I’m glad you appreciate it,” he says. “Violet, (F/n) and Sherlock have just arrived!”

No sooner than the words have left his mouth, Violet bustles into the entrance hall. “(F/n)! Merry Christmas!” she exclaims, gripping you into a hug. You’re a little taken aback at the sudden embrace, but eventually relax into it and smile at your welcome. “Oh, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Sherlock’s told us all about how wonderful you are with the violin!”

Blushing, you drop your gaze to the floor for a second before meeting her gaze again shyly. “You’re too kind, Mrs Holmes. And merry Christmas to you too! Thank you so much for-” you begin, before you’re promptly interrupted.

“Call me Violet, dear. None of that Mrs Holmes business!” Violet scolds you with a twinkle in her eye. “And it’s no trouble at all; it’s just so lovely to have the boys here together.”

Violet’s attention is diverted from you when she notices Sherlock attempting to unsuccessfully slink out of the room. Feeling a little overwhelmed, you sigh gently and close your eyes for a second. It’s hard to believe that a place as wonderful as this is real. And how on earth had Sherlock and Mycroft turn out the way they did with such...normal parents?

After Sherlock shows you into a spare bedroom under Violet’s strict instructions, it only takes a few minutes for you to settle the few things you’ve brought with you. After you take a moment to stare outside the window, the view gripping you again, you make your way to the kitchen and adjoining living space. Perhaps there’s something you can do to help with Christmas lunch, you think, despite Violet and Siger’s obstinate refusal of any assistance earlier.

* * *

But it’s Mycroft you find upon locating the kitchen instead of the Holmes’ parents, reclining into an armchair and casually reading a book. He looks up when the door swings open, revealing you in the doorway. “(F/n),” he says softly, putting the book down on the coffee table in front of him.

It’s been weeks - months, even - since you’ve seen or spoken to Mycroft, and already there are new lines on his forehead. You find yourself wholly unprepared for the rush of emotions that flood through you as soon as you lay your eyes on him. Relief is palpable in your mind, but so is trepidation, sorrow and hurt. He’s dressed as impeccably as always; a crisp white shirt, rolled to his elbows, is matched with a grey waistcoat and trousers. Swallowing, you try not to let your eyes drop to his exposed forearms, pale skin looking soft and smooth. His eyes are stormier than they were when you’d last seen him, full of complexities that escape your understanding as they’ve always done.

It’s difficult for you to look away once he’s locked his eyes on you. You can feel him reading everything about you by the intensity of his gaze, leaving no inch of skin unobserved. A shiver runs through your body. Seconds pass as Mycroft continues to stare at you, and you at him. A part of you wishes that you could read people just as he and Sherlock can; it’d even out the battlefield a little, leaving you at less of a disadvantage. “Mycroft,” you finally remember to reply, trying for evenness in your voice. You’re not sure if you really succeed.

Offhandedly, you notice that the smell of cigarette smoke seems to hang in the air. Under your gaze, Mycroft appears lost for words, not knowing where to begin. Coughing awkwardly, you finally break away from his gaze, feeling all too exposed. “I’ll, um, leave you to it. Sorry to disturb you.”

Before he can reply, you quickly step backwards and shut the door. Breathing hard, you clench your hands into fists and will yourself to calm down. You lean your head against the door frame. A few seconds later your breathing returns to something vaguely resembling a normal pace, and you stride swiftly back to the safety of the entrance hall where Siger and Sherlock are talking. There’s no way for you to realise that Mycroft is still staring at the door after you, a lost look in his eyes.

Sherlock looks at you in concern as you force a smile at him and join his father in discussing the various merits and faults of living in the city instead of the country. He folds his arms and stares intently at you, trying to figure out what’s happened. You sigh. What a start to Christmas morning.

Just minutes later, there’s a knock at the front door. Frowning, you look up at Sherlock, a questioning look in your eyes. In keeping with his general obliviousness to human social protocol, he hasn’t told you much (nothing at all, in fact) about today’s guests or expectations. Your eyebrows raise when you watch a dark expression momentarily cross his face.

Siger heaves himself up from his seat and unlocks the door as Violet steps into the room to join him. Pale winter light and wind flows in the door, revealing a tall, dark haired woman. “Hi there,” she says, smiling, her hand extended out to shake Siger’s hand. “Merry Christmas! You must be Mycroft’s dad; I'm Amanda.”

Your jaw drops without you realising. Any sense of etiquette or courtesy flies straight out of your mind as you stare openly at the woman in the doorway while Siger returns her smile and leads her in. _Who is she?_ Friend, girlfriend, lover, one night stand? Every option except the first leaves you feeling cold. Clearly it hadn’t been enough for Mycroft to ignore you for several months. Even still, flashing someone else in your face at Christmas of all times seems far more cruel than necessary. You’d already gotten the message, loud and clear.

Sherlock mutters your name in warning, his elbow bumping you almost roughly to get your attention. It’s not surprising that you don’t respond, he supposes. He forgoes manners even at the best of times; who is he to lecture you on politeness? Instead he alternates his watchful gaze between you and Amanda, who’s currently busy pressing a bottle of wine into his mother’s hands.

Simultaneously, your face has gone an entire shade paler as you watch the interaction before you. Sherlock can almost feel your mind whirring with comparisons and ruminations. “Don’t worry. Neither of my parents drink shiraz,” he mutters to you with a faint smile. “Which is what she’s just given my mother.”

Unsuccessfully attempting to stifle a snort of laughter, you press a hand to your face and smile a little. “Who is she?” you ask softly. Something twists inside your stomach. You're not sure if you really want the answer to your question.

“Lawyer and online shopping addict. Grew up in an estate in Manchester, but she’s learnt to hide her accent.” Sherlock’s words are quick as he peers at her unashamedly. “She relies on charm and confidence to bring people around to compensate for the disadvantage she perceives in her gender and ethnicity, despite-”

“Hang on,” you stop him mid-sentence and turn to meet his eyes, doubtful. “Did you know she was coming?” Suddenly Sherlock looks uncomfortable. At least he has the good grace to look slightly bashful when he speaks you think to yourself, groaning internally in preparation for what he’s going to say.

“I’d hoped that Mycroft would exercise better judgment, but...possibly. Potentially.” You look at him, sceptical. “Alright, yes. I thought he might.”

You miss your chance to respond and scold him scathingly for bringing you despite knowing this as the object of your discussion smiles at you and reintroduces herself. Hastening to stand from the couch, you instead settle with purposely stamping on Sherlock’s left foot as you rise. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say politely, hiding a smile as you hear him hiss beside you. Gripping her hand tightly when she extends it, you focus on keeping your voice utterly even. “I’m (F/n).”

“Nice to meet you too,” she replies sincerely, seemingly oblivious to your inner battle for equanimity.

A thankful sigh escapes you when the sound of a door slamming and footsteps approaching quickly shifts her attention away from you. On your right, Sherlock’s eyes are like lasers roaming over Amanda while she begins to speak to him. But it’s the man in front of you who holds your attention, like he always has.

Mycroft bursts into the room, an unreadable expression plastered on his face. He licks his lips anxiously as he takes in the scene before him; his parents looking conspiratorially between him and Amanda, Sherlock’s mutinous gaze. And of course, you. Again you feel his eyes locking onto you, searching.

The discomfort on your face is clear for anyone to see, try as you may to disguise it. There’s little point anyway, considering that the Holmes brothers regularly see through any and all attempts you’ve made in the past to hide your emotions. So you leave your forced smile on your face as you watch Mycroft put his arms around Amanda and kiss her on her cheek.

She’s stunning, you think to yourself distantly. Any observer would agree, objective or otherwise. Her clothes are effortlessly chic, the makeup on her face bold without detracting from her features, her lean figure toned and tanned. And there’s a certain feeling of quiet dominance and finesse that automatically places her at the centre of the room, regardless of who she’s speaking to.

Immediately, you realise that there’s no way that you can compete with this _Amanda_. When she stands with Mycroft, the two of them look ready to attend a garden party with all the landed gentry of England, for god’s sake. There’s a sense of sophistication around her that you know you can never hope to recreate, and you won’t pretend that the knowledge of that doesn’t crush you a little on the inside.

Shaking your head as you heed Violet’s calls to take a seat at the dining table, you grimace for a second. It’s going to be a long day.

* * *

“So what do you do, Amanda?” Siger asks from across the table as he cuts himself some turkey. He smiles affectionately at his wife when Violet pushes the potatoes just into his reach.

“I represent London on the Hogan Lovells’ board,” comes Amanda’s reply after she takes a sip of water. She beams as both Holmes parents nod approvingly.

“Amanda read law at Cambridge a few years before Sherlock, Mummy,” Mycroft adds casually, not looking at you.

Great. A prestigious and clearly successful career, and the finest education available in the country. You mentally update the list you’ve begun to make of things Mycroft must like about Amanda.

“Fantastic,” Violet remarks as she scoops a spoon of gravy on her plate. “And how about you, (F/n)? The violin, isn't it?”

Caught unawares, you quickly try to chew and swallow your current mouthful. After narrowly avoiding a cough fit, you swallow and clear your throat. “I’ve recently come back to being a solo violinist,” you say, smiling when you think of your last concert. “I’ve been lucky enough to play a couple of concerts already since returning to London in April. Hopefully my good luck continues!”

Sherlock snorts. Confused, you turn to your left and cast him an inquiring look. “(F/n) is being far too modest,” he says, looking directly at Mycroft. There’s a challenging spark in his eyes. “Her last concert at the Barbican with the BBC Symphony Orchestra sold out weeks before the performance.”

Impressed nods and coos of awe meet Sherlock’s statements. Amanda in particular is vocal with her interest; you remember her saying something about music earlier, but it still catches you off guard. You blush, feeling self conscious. Though he doesn’t say anything, you can feel Mycroft peering at you again. When you turn towards him, he turns away casually, as if he’d never been looking at all.

“You’ll have to let us know when your next concert is,” Siger says, looking at Violet who nods in agreement at you across the table. “We’d love to hear you play!”

“Thanks, Mr Holmes,” you reply, happily surprised by their interest.

He waves his hand dismissively. “Siger, please. There are far too many Mr Holmes’ at the table for that,” he says, a twinkle adorning his smile.

The rest of the meal carries on relatively calmly. Or at least, as calmly as a lunch involving both Sherlock and Mycroft can with their bickering.

Every so often, you try to catch Mycroft’s eye and smile, hoping there’s something you can do to ease the unspoken tension between the two of you. But each attempt is fruitless; he appears oblivious of your efforts, though you’re sure he can’t be. He’s Mycroft Holmes, after all. You sigh, reaching deeper in yourself for the strength to continue for the rest of the day.

* * *

Your breath turns into mist in the winter air as you stand at the edge of the garden. The green pastures and fields you’re faced with still take your breath away. There’s a real sense of grandeur in the scale and simplicity of the view, the English country atmosphere providing a balm to the claustrophobic feeling you’ve had inside all afternoon with Mycroft. Sighing, you perch on a stone wall, shuffling until you find a comfortable position.

“So this is Christmas,” you murmur to yourself as you look on. Gripping your arms together to ward off the cold, you shiver. From behind you hear the squeak of doors opening and closing, but you don’t move your gaze from the countryside.

Something warm and heavy unexpectedly finds itself on your shoulders, immediately guarding you from the wind. Twisting around in surprise, you’re confronted by Mycroft, wielding a sheepish expression on his face. “You looked cold from inside.”

“Thank you,” you reply, hesitantly. Fingering the black coat that's been placed around you, you turn back to consider the countryside again.

He sits on the stone beside you after you shuffle sidewards and make room. Rifling through his pockets, he makes a pleased sound when he eventually withdraws a packet of cigarettes. You watch as he sticks one between his teeth, none too gently, before shielding it with his hand as he lights up. A plume of smoke slowly wafts upwards.

Mycroft, smoking? That's new, you think, a frown growing on your face. “That can’t be good for you,” you try, unsure where to begin. “How long have you been smoking for?”

All he does is shrug while he inhales deeply, appearing to savour the sensation. When he fails to provide a lengthier response, you sigh and turn back towards the view.

“Congratulations on the concert again,” he says at last, minutes later. “I did make it, in the end. You were superb.”

“Thank you,” you repeat. Mycroft had come to your concert? Why hadn’t he told you? Forcing a smile, you can’t quite get it to touch your eyes before you speak. “And you too, Myc. With Amanda, I mean.”

You see something strange in his expression before he takes another long drag from the cigarette, the chemical bliss that rises unbidden on his face at odds with the strained look of his smile. For a moment he looks distinctly uncomfortable. Opening his mouth as if to speak, he still looks like he's struggling with himself before he closes his mouth shut again. His eyes are veiled, layer upon layer of emotion lying guarded in his eyes.

 _What aren't you telling me?_ you wonder. It stings inside when you remember the ease with which you used to talk to him, sitting together one night in an Italian restaurant. Instead, this disjointed attempt at a conversation is all you have now. Something tightens in your throat.

“Why did you ignore me, for all of those weeks? Or was it months?” The words rush out of you all of a sudden, disturbing the silence between you. The rapid beat of your heart thuds loudly in your ears. Turning to watch him, you see him press his lips together into a straight line.

Mycroft pointedly continues looking out over the landscape. His voice is even. “It was for the best, (F/n).”

“For who? You, or me?” The sharpness in your tone is jarring, even to you. Taken aback, Mycroft’s eyes find yours automatically as he shifts to face you better. Saying nothing, the wordless jumble of emotions in his eyes takes you by surprise; sorrow is mixed with pain, worry and something unidentifiable.

Sighing as you shake your head, not expecting him to break his quiet if he hasn’t already done so. “You know what, forget it. Just...nevermind. Forget it.” You don't know what you expected to get out of having this conversation, but whatever it is, it's not this. It hurts too much to feel the shards of your previous friendship and anything more that once existed twisting into you while you speak.

As you hop off the wall and begin to walk back towards the house, Mycroft’s voice carries over the wind. “(F/n), wait,” he calls out, something almost like desperation tinging the declaration. “I...I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

The words stop you in your tracks. _I’m sorry_. For a second, your mind sends you flying back to three months ago, when Mycroft had pressed a beautiful bouquet of flowers into your hand as he apologised softly. When you turn and catch sight of his expression, the vulnerable look on his face isn’t comparable to September’s incident; it far surpasses it. It’s a foreign image on him, being stripped of his walls again. It leaves him looking younger, and closer somehow.

Something haunts the look in his eyes, the heaviness almost too much for you to bear. Mycroft hasn't even told you what he's apologising for, but the darkness and sorrow in his eyes seems overbearing, begging for the load to be shared.

Closing your eyes, you know that any sane person would tell Mycroft to get lost after the way he’s treated you. But what are you to do? You’ve been lost to him for weeks, and no matter what, you know that it always comes back to him. The beseeching gaze in his eyes is transfixing, and you can't resist or deny the gravity that pulls you back to him. Rubbing your eyes as you feel them moisten just a fraction, you swallow as you step back towards him. The distance between the two of you seems to melt.

“Of course I forgive you, Myc,” you whisper, pulling him into your chest and wrapping your arms around him even as his arms encircle you. This time he smells of cigarettes and windswept grass, though there’s still something distinctively _Mycroft_ that clings to him. The combination is electrifying, driving both of you closer together. A current flows through you, sparks exploding beneath the surface of your skin. Mycroft holds you tightly, his grip on you intense as if he’ll never be able to hold you again. You let yourself crumble into him, his arms feeling so comforting and just _right_.

Because at the end of the day, he’s still Mycroft Holmes; keeper of both the British government and your heart, damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys want to see what I based the Holmes Sussex house very heavily on, here's a link! I'm absolutely in love with the place...just wish I had a cool couple of million pounds to buy the place lol.
> 
> http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-57124945.html


	12. A Flightless Bird Named Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so so much for all your comments to the last update; I'm just about to respond to the last ones - you're all magnificent <3
> 
> I wanted to let you guys know that updates are going to slow down drastically for this fic now that I'm back at uni. I'm so sorry about this argh !! It was a struggle to even finish this chapter; for some reason it's really difficult for me to immerse myself in the world and write as well as I want to when I have uni deadlines and real life stressing me out in the back of my head. And I desperately want to do this fic justice, so I think it's for the best... It's likely that there will be at least one update during August, more if I can find the time and headspace to get in the zone and write for a day or two straight (fingers crossed). I definitely WON'T abandon this fic forever though, even though it may seem like it - I promise !!
> 
> This chapter is a bit short but I hope you guys still enjoy it. Buckle up for some angst.

**January 8**

The start of a new year has already failed to bring excitement or joy to him, Mycroft thinks as he sits in the Diogenes, alone. He stares down at the phone in his hand, thinking relentlessly. It would be simple, yet simultaneously so incredibly difficult to open up to you, he muses. The action itself requires next to no effort. But it's the consequences that he fears beyond recognition, ripples that threaten to disturb the careful order in which he's laid out his life for the past decade. A quake begins in him, one that tremors unendingly and promises certain ruin if he acts on his instincts.

But upon thinking again, his protocols have by and large already been dismantled. Returning to a quiet home was once a pleasure, where now it catches him off guard when he wishes he had you to look forward to. A faint burr of jealousy strains in him when Mycroft watches Anthea hurrying through the last reports of the day so she can meet her husband on time. Every rule that's been held sacred for decades has seen itself bent out of recognition by you.

A fresh wave of guilt rocks him, the ice cold splash never failing to induce disbelief at what he's done. It weighs upon him like rocks pulling him to the earth. The muscles of his mind hardly cease in their protestation at bearing it, subjecting Mycroft to constant pangs of bitter feeling that he knows he deserves.

The memory of you in his arms at Christmas blazes bright again; he visits it in his mind palace at least twice a day, fearful that it may fade. He tries desperately to ignore the fact that in all likeliness, that will almost definitely be the last time he would feel you against him. _Of course I forgive you, Myc,_ you had said, everything good in Mycroft’s world held in those six words. But it’s false, and he knows it. He cannot and will not accept your grace. He doesn’t deserve it.

And so he finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from his phone, your contact lying idle in his hand. Should he inevitably drive you away with honesty, or maintain a bearable distance by omission? Neither choice appeals to him. He gnashes his teeth together as he continues to look forward.

But even still...the enticing hope of forgiveness, no matter how faint, calls to him. And so he continues to stare downwards as his fingers hesitantly compose a message to you.

[Sent 4:12pm]  
_I owe you an explanation.  
_ _MH_

[Received 4:13pm]  
_You're a few months late. (F/i) (L/i)_

[Sent 4:13pm]   
_I know. And I’m sorry.  
__MH_

[Received 4:17pm]  
_Right… I’m at Baker Street for the rest of the afternoon. (F/i) (L/I)_

 

* * *

 

You open the door wordlessly when you hear the knock. Expressionless, you gesture a hand carelessly towards your flat. Neither you or Mycroft say anything as he files in quietly, the intensity in the air smouldering.

Even now, after everything, he still looks beautiful to you; there’s a certain poise in his steps, a confidence in how he sits, and it inevitably draws you towards him. But this time the attraction is overruled by the tumult of emotions that you’ve been dragged through in the last few weeks and months. This time, you don’t offer him a cup of tea even as you retrieve the one you’ve just made for yourself. The atmosphere echoes the tension fraught in the air when the two of you just met.

“So,” you start eventually, trying to rid yourself of the feeling of his arms around you at Christmas. You shiver, the fire of the moment flaring softly in you for a second. “I’m getting an explanation.”

“Yes,” he says, bowing his head. He looks exhausted, even more so when he shares your gaze after looking up. More gently, he begins to speak again. “I will fully understand if you don’t wish to see me again after hearing this, (F/n).”

You narrow your eyes. What could possibly be so bad that you wouldn’t even want to see him? The lump in his throat is evident as he swallows, licking his lips. He says nothing for a few moments. Opening his mouth to begin, he shuts it a second later. You watch, concerned.

“Amanda and I aren’t together. We never were.” Mycroft’s upper lip trembles almost imperceptibly as he speaks, his voice rushing. “She came for Christmas because my mother asked me to bring someone. I had no-one else to bring, thanks to Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?” you interrupt, confused. Any initial euphoria you feel in your veins from hearing that Mycroft and Amanda aren’t together quickly begins to melt into confusion.

He nods, not explaining further or meeting your eyes. His jaw works for a second before the words fill the room. “I slept with her. Just once, in October. I thought you were with Greg, and I was wrong.”

You’re silent. Mycroft wouldn’t…would he? Slowly, your hands begin to quiver. Your press your lips together tightly, unable to speak.

“I was hurting so much, (F/n). But I…I regret it, now. Immensely. I’m so, so sorry. Please believe me when I-”

There’s an almighty crack when your hand meets the side of his face. Stinging, your hand returns to your tea. Calm bordering on numbness fills you as you distantly watch him cradling his cheek. Mycroft looks at you, lost. It’s only then that white hot fury begins to course through you, clouding your senses immeasurably.

The anger is preferable, though, to the chasm of murky fear that dwells below it. The point and sting of fury as it races through your system gives you something to focus on, to hold on to. It’s really the uncertain waters of betrayal that are a cause for fear; it’s far too easy to lose yourself in them, the dark already threatening to pull you under. You’d learnt to trust Mycroft. He’d been the first to really find a place in you after Sebastian. You’d trusted him.

But such a thing is fragile; easily broken, stolen. You should know better by now, you think offhandedly. Though who could have anticipated anything like this? Certainly not you, or anyone you would know. A man of English honour, tradition and manners, and a man who slept with another woman after continually courting you. It’s nearly impossible to reconcile the two images of Mycroft in your mind. 

You’re absolutely even, quiet when you can finally trust your voice not to break. “I had dinner with Greg, Mycroft, as you know. He kissed me, and I turned his advances down.” Against your will, your words begins to shake. “Based on one dinner, you run off and fuck someone else?”

Mycroft flinches. The look is so strange on him that for a second you’re not sure it even happened. But it’s no matter; a river of hurt has opened throughout you, and you’ve just been cut adrift into the current with reckless abandon. Something that feels all too similar to nausea begins to build in your stomach.

“Do you know what the funniest thing is?” you say, unable to stop bitterness from colouring what you’re saying. “You _knew_ that Sebastian cheated on me, Mycroft. You _know_ that I find it hard to trust people. So what do you go off and do after kissing me like your life depended on it?”

Your fingers are shaking slightly as you touch the moisture on your cheeks, flowing down without you realising. _How could he do this?_

It’s not visible to you, but it feels as if he is shattering piece by piece to Mycroft when he hears your words. There’s nowhere he can run within himself to escape; wherever he turns, the pain that’s so vivid in your eyes swirls around him. He’s hurt you, and far more than he’s ever done so in the past. The realisation of it slowly leaks throughout him, and inside himself he howls, unable to bear the thought of it.

“I was upfront about you with Greg,” you say softly. You’re not sure how much longer you can stand the sight of him. Mycroft just stares at the ground, silent. It feels almost as if you’re talking to yourself. “I told you. I _told_ you.”

When he meets you with his eyes again, you’re startled for a second to see tears beginning to form there, a mirror image to yours. His face is blotchy. A pale look of pallor seizes his skin. “I’m so sorry, (F/n),” he says quietly, voice breaking. “I never meant…I only-“

You shake your head. “Get out.” Your voice is hollow. “Just...get out, Mycroft.”

Swallowing, Mycroft stands. He looks back when he reaches the door, unable to leave so easily, but your gaze is fixed on your hands in your lap.

Only when the door is closed gently behind him do you allow yourself to fall endlessly within yourself as you draw your knees tightly to your chin. The sensation of drowning under emotions grips you hard. Tears trickling down your face are the only movement in the room as you remain rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the minutes that have just passed. As shadows fall and fade into darkness through the window, it’s all you can do to shut your eyes and hide as you begin to reacquaint yourself with the well-worn feeling of heartbreak.


	13. Waiting on the World to Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so horrendously overdue, I'm so sorry! Life has been much more eventful than I expected. I definitely am still writing, it's just taking a long time to get the right words on the page...can't guarantee when the next chapter will be up (probably before December I hope lol) but it WILL be up eventually! And it's going to be a big one - strap yourselves in for some feels! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this. Not the most eventful of chapters, but we're building up to it :)

**January 12**

The colour of life turns to grey in the days that follow. There are no words that can even begin to describe how you feel. It's part of the reason your mouth stays resolutely shut whenever you venture up to 221B, much to Sherlock’s confusion. As you've done for the last few days, you sit in your armchair softly and stare out of the window.

The world turns as it always does; businessmen walk hastily, youths loiter on street corners, the sun sun rises and falls when due. And you sit still, watching, a passive observer rather than an active participant.

You dig your hands into your pockets, the chill in the air worse here than in your flat. A persistent flatness never abandons your mood, no matter how you try and shake it.

“(F/n)?” Sherlock’s voice comes from the doorway as he steps in, pulling off his scarf.

Swallowing, you do your best to compose yourself and force a smile. You reach for the book buried behind the cushion beside you, striving for an air of nonchalance. “How was the case?” you ask, testing out your voice. It sounds unused, a little scratchy.

“Boring. Hardly worth my time.” The dismissive tone in Sherlock’s voice almost raises a smile to your face, but not quite.

Neither of you speak further. Picking up the book again, you try to focus on the words in front of you. You vaguely remember enjoying the first half of it recently, but it evades you this time. Sherlock drapes his coat over a hanger and sits opposite you, stepping his hands under his chin.

There's an odd look in his eyes that you would've noticed if you'd looked up. Quietly, he examines every inch of you that he can see, but everything still comes up blank. Social protocol and comfort really aren't Sherlock’s specialties. To compensate, he resolves to memorise all he can and report it to John; perhaps then he can offer some guidance. John is, after all, an expert in humans.

He won't say anything until then, Sherlock decides. It’s probably best not to pry. You’d just have to manage until he could find a way to have John interpret your behaviour and devise an appropriate solution.

Realising that you've read the same paragraph several times over now, you sigh. The book snaps shut audibly as you stand. It's a good thing that Sherlock and Mycroft don't look much alike, you reflect distantly. Who knows what you'd be like if they did.

Your footsteps echo as you climb down the stairs, still easily discernible to Sherlock. He continues to consider you in his mind, trying to establish what exactly he's expected to do. Mycroft’s idiocy evidently knows no bounds, Sherlock thinks to himself in exasperation as he reclines into the chair, looking at the ceiling.

Still in the same position minutes later, he hears the sounds of your violin reverberating through the floor. It takes only a few seconds for him to recognise the tune; Rachmaninoff’s _Vocalise_ haunts the air, your playing filled almost unbearably with emotion. A chord of understanding is gradually struck in Sherlock as he listens, mind wandering. Pain, sorrow and loss; it seeps out of the notes you coax from the instrument as you pour yourself into it.

Suddenly, a violent buzz interrupts the atmosphere. A frustrated sigh leaving him, Sherlock scans the room for the source of it. It’s your phone, in fact, lying on the table beside him facing up. He can’t help but grimace when he sees the messages.

 _I'm so sorry. More than you can ever imagine.  
_ _MH_

 _If there’s anything I can do, just ask. Anything, (F/n).  
_ _MH_

 

* * *

 

**January 14**

Upon immediate consultation with John, Sherlock is instructed to ‘be there for you’. In all honesty, he remains quite unsure of what exactly that entails, as much as it pains him to admit it. He's researched how to comfort a friend on the internet, but the results haven't exactly been fruitful; whether that's due to the depth of your misery or his own ineptitude is still a mystery to him.

Mrs Hudson finally decides to intervene upon returning home after the festive season. As much as she privately enjoys watching Sherlock awkwardly patting you on the back in the semblance of a hug, she hopes that you’ll perhaps take more to someone more subtle. Chocolate chip cookies are baked in multitudes, invitations to her flat abound every time she sees you...at one point, even her famous herbal soothers are offered. 

But you refuse them all as kindly as you can, not wanting to make anyone else responsible for what you yourself should be capable of doing. Going through the motions, you manage a wan smile today as Mrs Hudson fusses over you, fretting about how little you're eating. 

“You need to eat, (F/n),” she says, hands on her hips as she watches you struggle to finish your toast. “Having three biscuits a day may keep Sherlock going, but the rest of us need a little more substance.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mrs Hudson,” you assure her automatically, mentally assembling your outer shell into place more securely. As your armour comes on, your hand robotically stuffs more toast into your mouth. “I’m not all that hungry today.”

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson share a worried look as your gaze drifts to the window again, your tea resting ignored on the table again. Beside your plate, your phone vibrates softly. You don’t so much as look at it.

 _Sherlock was right. You deserve better. I’m sorry.  
_ _MH_

 

* * *

 

**Jan 21**

“I think that’s a great idea!” Molly exclaims, glancing back at you. Customers beside the two of you look on questioningly, but their inquisitiveness goes unanswered. “It’ll be so nice to see everyone again, it’s been far too long.”

Inwardly, you’re grateful that John suggested you host something at Baker Street for your rapidly approaching birthday. Given the last fortnight, it’s likely that you would’ve either forgotten about it or simply let the date slip by unattended to. The prospect of having to hold yourself together in front of multiple people nevertheless does remains daunting. For now, you resolve to invite the rest of the group a little less publicly, for your own sake.

You're looking consideringly at a flowing black dress when your phone chimes jarringly, clashing with the ambient soundtrack of the shop’s other customers and attendants. Steadfastly ignoring it, you continue to absentmindedly rifle through the rest of the clothes rack as Molly frowns beside you. As she hums and lifts a dress in navy up to eye level, she speaks. “Are you going to get that?” suggests Molly, turning to look at you. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” you reply, merely shrugging. Not wanting to discuss the matter any further, you bob your shoulders and pointedly continue to search through the clothes in front of you.

You're positively certain that Greg has told Molly that you've been under the weather lately. But you’re equally sure that she's decided to take you out for a girl’s day without his influence, even though the two of you don't know each other all that well. And you're grateful for it; it feels good to start a new friendship, to build a new connection with a kind and warm person. To top it off, Molly’s fashion advice has been nothing short of spectacular all afternoon, a fact you're immensely grateful for.

The phone buzzes again and peels loudly into the air. Feeling Molly’s eyes slide back on to you again, you sigh. You’re wearing a worn look when you unlock the phone, already knowing the name that you expect to see on the screen.

Insanely, the only person you desperately want to speak to in all of this is Mycroft, the very person that’s hurt you. But your feelings are jumbled beyond recognition. There are moments when all you want is for him to take you into his arms and hold you to quiet the pain in you. And equally, there are times when the thought of him makes you sick to the stomach, unable to reconcile the Mycroft you thought you knew and how he’s made you feel. Scrolling his messages, your stomach tightens.

[January 17, 10:29am]

 _I miss you.  
_ _MH_

Three short, small words. And yet they evoke an avalanche, leaving you tumbling down the mountainside. You stand still, staring at the coats in front of you as you try to grapple with the swarm of feelings that Mycroft’s message has awakened. He can’t be serious. It can’t be that- 

“-sorry,” a man says as he bumps you unawares, reaching towards someone beside you and Molly. You frown for a second. Something about him stirs in your memory, but you can’t quite remember what. Offhandedly, you register the lean but muscled figure of his body. As he walks away, you catch a glimpse of cropped brown hair just above the heads of your fellow shoppers. Staring after him, you eventually lose sight of him as your mind wanders back to Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

**Jan 21**

“Thank you, Anthea.” Without looking up, Mycroft murmurs absentmindedly as he extends his hand out to grasp the file she offers. He continues to peruse the papers before him for a few moments before a cough breaks the silence surrounding him. Narrowing his eyebrows, he frowns when he catches sight of Anthea remaining at his desk, looking at him concernedly. An appropriately expectant look manifests on his face.

“With respect, sir,” Anthea begins hesitantly. Immediately, Mycroft crosses his arms and looks up towards her, a challenging gleam in his eye. “Is everything alright? You seem slightly less...present lately, if I may say so.” 

Mycroft shifts in his seat without saying a word. Nothing in his expression changes, save for his eyes tightening fractionally. His voice is low and tinged with a warning tone. “With respect, Anthea, I’m sure you’re aware that I prefer to keep my personal and working lives separate as far as possible.”

The gulp in Anthea’s throat is silent but not invisible to Mycroft. Dipping her head hastily in understanding, her heels clack on the floor as she turns away and walks towards the door. She can’t be blamed for trying though, she thinks to herself, even if it’s to no avail. Who could know what was going on in the mind of the Iceman?

Immediately after the door closes with a gentle thud, Mycroft allows his head to fall to his open hands. Silently, he indulges himself and allows wretched _feelings_ to filter into his mind, just for a few moments. Clearly he needs to manage himself better if even his employees can see his rapid deterioration. Wading through waves of sorrow mixed together with faint hints of self-loathing, he tries to stem the flow by boarding up his mind from the inside. But any efforts to drive nails and boards up are futile. All Mycroft can do is gasp for air as he’s swept away by the current of his longing for you against the sandbed of his inadequacy.


	14. Only Fools Rush In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! Sorry this update has taken so long - life has been hectic. Good, but a bit crazy. Anyway, here is the long-awaited update; hope you guys enjoy it. You may want to read the last half of last chapter before this one just to refresh if you (understandably) haven't read this fic in a while! Thanks again for all your patience :)

**February 3**

A roar of laughter echoes down 221B’s stairs as you climb up them, clutching two fresh bottles of wine. Opening the living room door reveals people either pressed together on the couch or standing. Sherlock looks particularly mutinous as John thrusts another beer into his hand across the coffee table. He looks at you beseechingly as you begin to top up empty wine glasses before him.

“No more for me thanks, (F/n),” Molly says, waving her hand near her glass when you approach her. She dips her chin apologetically towards Greg across the table, who’s just let his empty glass slip from his fingertips into the side of John’s old armchair. “Got to keep an eye on this one, I’m afraid.”

Eventually, you squeeze yourself on the couch beside John and Mrs Hudson after making sure everyone is well fed and watered. A sigh escapes you as you lean back and stretch out. Sitting up a bit straighter, John touches your hand lightly. “It's been a great night,” he remarks warmly. “And it's good to see you back on your feet again.”

You smile, the expression feeling a little more natural on your face now. “Thanks, John,” you reply. “I mean it's still a bit messy, and do you think everyone had enough food? I don't want-”

“(F/n),” he interrupts firmly. “Everything is lovely.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Mrs Hudson chirps in, clutching her wine. “This was a lovely idea, (F/n).”

Shaking your head with a smile, you touch her on the shoulder gratefully before Greg calls out to the room. “Alright everyone, alright,” he says, waving one arm haphazardly in the air to draw everyone’s attention. “Oi, Sherlock. It’s time!”

The man in question turns away from Molly and towards Greg. A quizzical expression colours his face. “What on earth are you talking about, George?” 

It’s difficult to stifle the giggles rising from you as your eyes meet Molly’s. Throwing his hands in the air, Greg sighs dramatically. “S’pose it’d be too much to ask for you to get the cake, then,” he muses drily. “John, would you do the honours?”

“Of course,” John replies, smiling. He apologies quietly, jostling you slightly as he stands. It doesn’t take him long to disappear out the door and down the stairs.

“What cake, exactly?” You turn towards Mrs Hudson, a quizzical tone colouring your words. The only response you get is a shrug matched with twinkling eyes. Trying to catch Sherlock’s eye proves unsuccessful, the man determinedly staring up at the ceiling.

A chorus of cheers fills the room quickly when John re-enters the living room. There’s a chocolate cake balanced carefully in his hands, candles all glowing warmly. It’s Molly who begins the familiar strains of  _ Happy Birthday! _ once the cake is set down in front of you, and by the third line of the song even Sherlock is singing along begrudgingly. 

You can’t help the few tears that slide from your eyes even as you laugh, amazed. It seems almost unbelievable to you that the people around you - your  _ friends _ , you remind yourself - have made such an effort. And yet here they all are, gathered to celebrate with you. The feelings in you are almost overwhelming, but this time it’s not a wave of sorrow but one of happiness that floods you. You are cared for. Your friends are here for you.  

Once everyone’s finished singing, you laugh again weakly as you blow out the candles amidst claps and whistles. “Hope you made a wish,” Greg mouths at you with a wink. You roll your eyes at him jokingly as Molly passes over the knife to cut the cake. Privately though, you cringe a little as you try and ignore your first wish, that Mycroft could be here. 

As you’re distributing cake to everyone, you catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s curls bouncing as he quickly files down the stairs. You wonder where he’s gone for a second before John accidentally bumps you and nearly sends his piece flying in the process.

Before you know it, the cake is eaten with many groans of pleasure and Mrs Hudson is the first to make her relatively short way home. The hug she gives you as she leaves is tight, and there’s a hopeful look in her eyes as she turns away from you and makes her way down the stairs. Greg follows soon after with Molly, seemingly holding on for dear life to her left arm as he walks. 

Noble as always, John valiantly begins the clean-up efforts for the night, piling a mountain of dirty plates in the sink. When you make your way towards the kitchen, he’s resolute. “Leave it to me,” he says firmly. “You have a rest, (F/n). It’s the least I can do.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, doubtful. 

“Absolutely,” John insists. He waves his hand dismissively at the rubbish that’s just fallen from the heap beside him into sink with the plates. “I’ll handle it.”

You can’t help but feel a bit relieved to avoid at least some of the washing up, even if a part of you still feels guilty about John doing so much of the work. Eventually acquiescing, you quietly descend down the stairs to your flat into the dark front hallway. Mrs Hudson must’ve turned off the lights, you muse.

Fumbling for your keys, you gasp when someone’s hand touches your arm. The lights flood on and illuminate the silhouette behind you to reveal Sherlock with his other hand on the light switch, looking slightly sheepish. “Jesus,” you breathe out heavily. “Don’t sneak up on people like that, Sherlock.”

“Sorry,” he says, unapologetically. Staring closely for a second, his eyes seem to change direction with every moment as they rake over you. You resign yourself to being deduced, as you are on a daily basis anyway.

When Sherlock looks up at you properly again, there’s a careful expression on his face. He produces a sealed envelope from his inner jacket pocket and presses it into your hand. “A gift,” he says, shortly.

“But you already gave me one,” you reply slowly, your confusion evident. He merely quirks his eyebrows and shrugs in response before turning away towards the stairs once again. 

Shaking your head, you take a brief look at the unmarked envelope before unlocking and pushing your door open. It’s only when you’re back in your own space that you realise just how exhausted you are. You’ve never been so grateful to own such a comfortable armchair as you are now when you let yourself fall into it.

Sighing, you close your eyes. A few seconds pass. All that’s audible in the room is your breath, a welcome respite after a good, albeit long, day. For a while, all you’re aware of is the softness of the armchair beneath you as you finally begin to uncoil and relax alone.

When you jerk back to awareness though, the letter Sherlock sprung had on you falls to the floor. Huffing as you bend over to pick it up, your fingers glide across the thick stock of the paper once you’re upright again. You tear the envelope open delicately and smooth out the contents, curious about all the mystery.

You’re not prepared for the elegant handwritten print that pours all over the stiff paper, handwriting so distinctly  _ Mycroft _ that it almost brings a smile to your face at first instance. The next second brings back all of your prior feelings with full force. You stare at it without making out any words, hands shaking ever so slightly. Should you read it? Or is it best to just tear it up and throw it in the bin? All the thoughts that you’ve relegated to the back of your mind about Mycroft begin to seep back in.

Fingering the paper nervously, you swallow, trying to contain yourself. A deep breath fills your lungs and you begin to read.

* * *

 

 

_ Dear (F/n), _

_ I know you don’t want to hear from me, and rightly so. I don’t fault you for it. But please, should you ever want to read this, I will be immensely grateful. _

_ I’ve been a fool, and I’m paying the price for it every day. I doubt that I have ever regretted anything so much in my life as I have the way I’ve treated you these past months. You are a truly astounding person, (F/n). There is little I can say that expresses how furious I am at myself for causing you the pain that I have, and little more that I can do to make it up to you. As I’m sure you have gathered, the reasons for my actions are sometimes...less than clear. And I am not exactly known for being open or welcoming. So, here I am. _

_ My assumptions of you and Greg Lestrade in hindsight were indeed unfounded. But you must understand - I already believed, and still do, that you deserve someone better. Someone like him, perhaps, who can really give you what you deserve. So it seemed fitting for me to stand aside and let you go, thinking you would go to him in the end. You would be happier that way, I convinced myself, and that was all that mattered. I was selfish too. Pushing you away was my only self-defence, I thought. Perhaps if I never saw you again on your own and your beautiful smile, I would someday forget the feeling of your lips pressing upon mine late at night and sleep a little easier at night. I told myself that if I didn’t see your kindness and listen to your ever insightful thoughts, I could move on as best I could. On this though, I was spectacularly wrong. _

_ And Amanda. I am unimaginably sorry for bringing her into your path. There is no rational explanation for it. I was hurting, and for a moment she made me feel just a fraction of how you make me feel. I needed to feel wanted at a time where any thought of you and Greg instead of me brought pains to my chest. It was the best that I could do for myself in absence of you. In my mind, you were already firmly out of my grasp. _

_ I understand that what I have written may not make any sense, and may not be enough to explain or justify what I’ve done. So I write this not asking for another chance, or to convince you that what I did wasn’t wrong. All I hope is that you will read this, and perhaps find it in you to forgive me. I am not a good man, (F/n). That much, at least, must be easy for you to see. I am resigned to losing you to one better than I, of which there are many I am sure. It is all that I deserve.  _

_ Please know, though, that I will always be yours. It is unlikely that you will want to see me again, and I accept that, no matter how terrible the thought makes me feel. But should you ever need anything at all, never doubt that I will be there.  _

_ You are the best person I know, and I have no doubt that this will remain true for the rest of my life. _

_ Yours,  
_ _ Mycroft _


	15. The Inexorable Pull of Magnets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I'm so sorry this is so late. I missed my self-imposed Christmas deadline due to a variety of reasons, and I can't apologise enough! Hope everyone is having a great holiday season and that you enjoy the update. Further updates will be sporadic but WILL be occurring.

**February 9**

[Feb 9, 11:05am]

_I read your letter. (F/i) (L/i)_

 

[Feb 9, 11:11am]

_I’m...I’m glad. Thank you.  
_ _MH_

 

[Feb 9, 11:19am]

_Do you maybe..want to get dinner or something? (F/i) (L/i)_

 

[Feb 9, 11:20am]

_Give me a time and place, and I’ll be there.  
_ _MH_  

 

* * *

 

**February 10**

“So,” you start. “How...how have things been for you lately?”

Mycroft looks at his hands as they grip together on the table and swallows in his throat. He’s sure that his nerves are showing. And with his sleeves rolled carelessly at his elbows and collar loose for once, he feels decidedly too exposed for his liking.

Tucked away in the corner of a Chinese restaurant, Mycroft can’t help but notice how the light falls on you just gently enough to accentuate the liner on your eyes. He arches an eyebrow. You look as beautiful as you always do, he knows, but he’s sure that you don’t normally wear makeup when he sees you. The look is slightly foreign on you, lending a mysterious quality to the air.

“I’ve been quite busy,” he acknowledges slowly. “With work, as usual.”

“I see,” you reply, seeming unsure of what to say. A pause hangs in the air for a few seconds.

“I’ve been trying to sleep a bit more, though. Like you told me,” Mycroft says, testing the waters. He lets a smile quirk almost shyly on his face for a second before swallowing again, not sure if it’s too much.

You laugh and raise your eyes to meet Mycroft’s hesitant ones. The moment stretches, and he swears he can see a glimmer of the old sparkle in your eyes. Something in him clenches impossibly tight as he gazes at you, swelling until he feels almost as if he could burst from all of it. _(F/n)_. Your name echoes in the hallways of his mind.

And yet, there’s trepidation walking laps around his heart. The layers of hurt and broken trust between the two of you are physically jagged, painfully tangible. Barriers that Mycroft himself had forced upon you. He swallows, uneasy. Was it really right to pursue this? To potentially expose you to more pain than that already suffered?

“Can I take your order?” The moment is cleaved in half as you turn your head in surprise, the waiter’s sudden appearance catching you off guard. Mycroft sighs and looks down as you smile and point towards the third item on the menu.

The old camaraderie he once possessed with you is never quite recaptured for the moment. He’s far too conscious of the hesitations between words that didn’t previously exist, the occasions where he can’t bring himself to focus on anything but a momentarily shaky look in your eyes. Dirt and dust obscures the ease that he had once expected to feel around you.

Even so, you still take Mycroft’s breath away. He finds himself laughing every now and again, surprising himself with the unfamiliar sound after so long. Your every word is precious to him and your smiles even more so, even if they’re uncertain at times.

It isn’t what he had with you, once. That pulsing energy had dimmed, replaced now with an almost indiscernible hum both fragile and in need of healing. But it remains, he thinks to himself, frail as it is. That in itself is something to be immensely thankful for.

Seeing you and loving you from afar is privilege enough, he decides. It would have to be.

 

* * *

 

**February 24**

“For God’s sake, hurry up, (F/n),” comes Sherlock’s voice, shouting from above. “He’s ruining all of my experiments!”

Laughing to yourself, you swing through the door to 221B and enter unnoticed. Even though you’ve spent weeks trying to bury your emotions, you can’t help the flutter that rises through you when you catch sight of Mycroft, nor the smile that grows on your face. His cool composure is comically framed beside a scandalised expression on Sherlock’s face. The two men tower over the kitchen table, which is covered as usual in noxious chemicals and petri dishes. Mycroft folds his arms and looks as if he’s stifling a yawn while Sherlock continues to berate him on the intricacies of laboratory etiquette.

Coughing to announce your entrance, you can’t help but look amused when both heads turn in your direction almost instantaneously. The relief on Mycroft’s face is palpable along with a flicker of something unidentifiable, while the stormy cloud on Sherlock’s seems to darken.

“(F/n),” he barks sharply. “Get my brother out of my flat. Now.”

Mycroft raises his arms in mock surrender. It’s too much to ask of him to look apologetic. Stifling the chortles threatening to surface from you, it’s a struggle to remain silent. For a second, you press your lips together before beginning to speak innocently.

“But he’s just arrived, Sherlock!” You put on a disappointed air and are momentarily tempted to pout as you look sideward. Mycroft’s eyes narrow for a second at the mischievous look you’re wearing, before shifting into an expression somewhat more amicable.

A remarkably loud groan follows your statement. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he shoves his chair back. In keeping with his usual histrionics, he abandons the table while muttering about irritating flatmates and family members. He dramatically flops on to the couch and folds his arms tightly, dressing gown sailing with him.

Grinning, you catch Mycroft’s eye again. This time, he chuckles as he slides his hands into his pockets and strides towards the door.

“Good to see you as always, Sherlock,” Mycroft calls from over his shoulder. No response follows besides a half-hearted grunt.

“Alright?” you ask him as you climb into his car. The air inside it is surprisingly warm given the chill pervading the air on the street.

“I’ve been worse,” Mycroft replies, starting the engine. “It’s been a long week, to say the least. And yourself?”

“Much the same,” you agree. “These next few concerts are a lot closer than I’d like them to be.”

“I’m sure you’ll play wonderfully, as always.”

“You’re far too kind.”

“I’m quite sure that I’m not.”

There’s something in his tone that seems quietly amiss. The regal air of finality is nothing new. But it’s almost if the sense of suave confidence that once permanently permeated Mycroft’s words had faded away. Unconsciously furrowing your brow, you wonder what had happened.

A pause finds its way into the conversation while he tuts at London’s seemingly endless traffic. “So, where exactly are we going tonight, Mycroft?”

The cars in front of him finally begin to move once more. “Somewhere a bit different,” he remarks, turning to glance at you. “If that’s agreeable with you?”

Returning his smile is easy. Almost too easy, you reflect with a sigh once you resume looking outside your window. Somewhere in you it vaguely registers that he’s directly asked for your approval for the first time, even if it was only in the most general of terms.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god, is that paella?!” An incredibly rich smell rapidly envelops you over the surrounding scents competing in the air. There’s nothing you can or want do to prevent the grin that breaks out on your face, widening as you inhale more deeply. Abandoning the stall you’d previously been considering and instead spinning towards its neighbour, your excitement is far too alight to be contained.

You feel a light touch on your arm as Mycroft pulls himself away from the crowd. An amused look in his eyes, he offers you the long end of your scarf that’s flown off your shoulder haphazardly. Blushing slightly, you thank him before turning your attention back to the heaven at hand that is paella.

“You’re a bloody psychic, Mycroft Holmes,” you say, unable to take your eyes off the simmering glory before you. “How could you possibly know I’d love this street food stuff before I even did?”

The man in question chuckles as he watches your beaming face. “Your tendency for casual dress, the occasional residual smells in Baker Street I catch when visiting, the preference you’ve always had for simple and yet vibrant and flavoursome dishes at all our meals together,” Mycroft replies, matter of factly. “A street food festival was the clear solution.”

Tearing your gaze away and setting it on him for a moment, you’re a little astounded. The silent thoughtfulness in where he’s brought you tonight is far more than what you’re used to from anyone. Even Mycroft, if you’re being honest with yourself. “You still remember what I ate at our dinners from months ago?” you ask a little disbelievingly, not at his ability, but that he’s chosen to employ his skills towards you so insightfully.

Mycroft merely looks bashfully back at you. You shake your head in response, still nonplussed.

“That’ll be ten pounds for that plate, please,” the Spanish stall owner says when you finally settle on which paella to try. Nodding, you look down and begin to tug out your purse from your bag.

By the time you lift your head, cash in hand, you’re just in time to catch Mycroft handing over a crisp ten pound note to the man. The Spaniard smiles at him in thanks before passing the plate in your direction, in the process forcing you to shove your purse back into your bag to avoid spilling anything. “Enjoy your food and evening, both of you!” he speaks cheerfully, casting his eyes between Mycroft’s pleased expression and your one of disbelief.

You round on Mycroft as soon as you’re away from the stall, not caring about the crowds pressing on both you. Upon finding a crumpled tenner after a quick rummage, you extend it out to him and wait for him to take the note.

He simply shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“Mycroft,” a warning tone in your voice.

“I want to, (F/n). Please, enjoy your food.”

Mycroft brings his eyes to yours. There’s a pleading expression in them, one that almost makes you ache from the sincerity of it. The blueness in his eyes seem to go on infinitely with it. “It’s the least I can do,” he adds quietly. “Just let me do this.”

You hold his gaze, unable and unwilling to break away from his intangible pull. The space between the two of you, a healthy distance of more than several centimetres, begins to charge. Flickers and flares of something heated emerge unawares, trapped by the intensity of the moment.

_You can’t help but be reeled in_ , a disembodied thought of yours comes to mind offhandedly. For so long it’s felt like you’ve been fighting a losing war in keeping yourself away from this spark.

Eventually, you sigh and break away from Mycroft’s eyes. “Okay,” you finally concede. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

He insists on walking you to the front door after driving you home, even after you maintain time after time that you’re more than capable of crossing a pavement unassisted.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you say with raised eyebrows as Mycroft comes to a halt opposite you on your doorstep.

“Long live chivalry,” he remarks nonchalantly in return.

You swallow as you meet his eyes again. Once again they swirl with unimaginable depth, this time matched with the most unreadable of expressions on his face. The parallels between the present and the night Mycroft’s lips crashed against yours desperately are painfully present, to both of you.

His expression changes; it’s careful now, almost fragile. To you it gives away nothing and everything simultaneously, realising that his defences are slowly being reassembled and put back into use once more.

Seeing that look on his face is unbearable. Your arms can’t help but hold him, pulling the two of you closer as you shut your eyes.

The warmth. The feeling of Mycroft’s body pressing against yours, even under layers of coats and shirts. The thudding and pumping of your heart. The way time seems to stop and the cold weather is forgotten in an instant. _Oh god, it feels so damned right_.

Except...you open your eyes. He’s staring at you, and his arms are stiff by his side. You can already feel glass cracking and spreading into shatters inside you before the pieces fall, fall unendingly as you release him and take a step back. “I-I should go. God I’m sorry, I-”

The words stop dead when Mycroft very hesitantly closes the distance and wraps his arms around you in return. Everything loses focus apart from the feeling of him so close to you, gentle and soft. The sparks fly once more, vibrations in the air quickening. No other thought is worth thinking as you both come together, united for just a moment.

Mycroft makes no attempt to try and kiss you as he once did. When he looks at you, there’s something wild in his eyes for a second before it’s smothered, and they return to their customary calm. An uncertain smile quirks briefly on his face as he pulls away, lingering with his touch for a second before he’s gone with the night.


End file.
